Miranda, Watch My Head Spin
by MauMauKa
Summary: Emily finally snaps. Femmeslash. Don't like, don't read. I, of course, own none of the content.
1. Chapter 1

"Emily, Watch My Head Spin"

Thanks so much to everyone who read and reviewed my Harry Potter drabble, "Respect"! I really enjoyed the comments.

This drabble is based on DWP the movie, not the book…in which Andrea is injured, Miranda goes nuts, and Emily's had enough.

"**Miranda, Watch My Head Spin".**

When Miranda burst through the door of her office, Emily nearly collided with her. It was always her habit to spring to her feet whenever that door opened. But Miranda was moving at such an incredible speed—almost _running_, in fact—that she nearly knocked Emily into a nearby rolling rack.

The junior assistant, Megan, had jumped up too. She was looking back and forth between Emily and Miranda, her face pale. "You!" Miranda snapped. "You are chained to your desk from now until the Book arrives, do I make myself clear? You move one inch and you can go right up to human resources."

Megan paled even further; she looked chalky. "Y-yes, Miranda."

"That's all. _You_" she pointed to Emily. "Come with me."

Emily didn't need to be told twice. She grabbed her purse and scuttled out behind Miranda, wondering what in the hell could have happened. Miranda was actually flushed and she looked furious, her eyes glared straight ahead and her mouth was set in a thin line. Clackers dove out of sight as she and Emily made their way down to the lobby and out of the building. The car was already waiting at the curb, and Emily ran around the back of it to throw herself in on the passenger side.

"Mount Sinai!" Miranda barked to the driver. The driver, seeing the look on her face, peeled out so suddenly that Emily, who was in the middle of buckling her seat belt, was pitched against the front seat. Miranda didn't even bother to roll her eyes. Emily felt like her stomach was full of ice water; something was very, very wrong. One of the twins…it had to be! They had gotten hurt or something. She stayed quiet as Miranda whipped out her cell and punched in a number.

"Miranda Priestly here" she said shortly. "Connect me with Andrea Sachs' doctor at once. That's all."

Emily felt like she might faint. _Andrea_? All of this panic was for _Andrea_?!

There was a pause, the Miranda spoke again in her most glacial tones. "No, I am _not_ a family member and that is really none of your business….I do not _care_ what your policies are. Connect me at once either to Ms. Sachs' doctor or your supervisor. The choice is yours."

Another pause, then, "Yes? Is this Andrea Sachs' doctor? What do you _mean_, you're the on-call? I see. Yes…" Miranda's hand, which held the cell phone, had begun to tremble. "No, you will NOT move her there. You will take her to Sloan Kettering when she's out of surgery. I will be arriving shortly and I will handle those details. Be ready. That's all."

She hung up and stared out the window. Emily licked her dry lips. What the bloody hell?!

"You will not say one word, Emily. To _anyone_. If you value your career in fashion at _all_, you will do _exactly _as I tell you today. If you choose otherwise, you can forget about working at _Runway,_ in New York, or in any other place in the industry. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Miranda."

"Good. When we get to the hospital, you will contact Andrea's parents and let them know what I have decided. You will also handle the financial end for me. Will that be beyond your capabilities?"

"No…of course not." Emily took a deep breath; she _had_ to ask, "What happened, Miranda?"

Miranda did not respond, and for a moment, Emily thought she wasn't going to. Then she said tonelessly, "She's been shot."

"_What?!"_ The word burst from Emily before she could stop herself. She flinched, wondering if Miranda was going to let her have it, but the older woman didn't even turn her head. "They sent her to cover that student riot. Shots were fired during the melee, and she got hit."

Emily shook her head, stunned and sick. What she had suspected for some time was true. Miranda cared for the girl. God only knew _why_…Andrea was fat, stupid, incompetent, and a _traitor_… but she did. Emily had given up her whole _life_—boyfriends, school, free time, her bloody _soul_, thank-you-very-much—to Miranda. She had striven to fulfill every demand and anticipate every need, and did Miranda care? No. Not at all.

"Get that look off your face. Emily" Miranda said icily, breaking into her thoughts. "I'm warning you…don't be stupid."

"She doesn't even _work_ at _Runway _anymore. She left _you_ in Paris without so much as a by-your-leave, after screwing _me_ out of something I worked for two years for, and you're telling _me_ not to be stupid?!" Emily gave a soft, bitter laugh.

"You screwed yourself out of that trip, Emily."

"How? By getting _hit by a car_?! By getting the _flu_?! By not remembering _one_ person out of the _hundred or so_ I greeted at the benefit?! By not throwing myself at Irv Ravitz?! Tell me, Miranda, which of those things did it?" Emily snorted. "Or was it just that you're not into redheads?"

"Pull over!" Miranda barked to the driver. The car lurched to the curb and Miranda jerked her head at her soon-to-be-ex assistant. "Get out."

Emily smiled, her violet-lidded eyes like two chips of green ice. "I have something for you" she fumbled for a moment in her Prada bag and pulled out a sheaf of papers. "I intended to give this to you on Friday. I've accepted a position at _Vogue_. I'll send my official resignation tomorrow."

Miranda stared, and Emily saw with vicious satisfaction that she looked a little stunned. She recovered quickly, however, and took the papers and tucked them into her own bag. "I meant what I said, Emily. And if you think you'll find life easier under Anna Wintour, you're going to be very disappointed."

"Well, I don't _love_ Anna Wintour, so at least I won't have _that_ to deal with. Goodbye, Miranda."

The sight of Miranda's mouth dropping open almost made the pain in Emily's heart bearable. With as much dignity as she could muster, she stepped out of the car and walked off down the street, her hand up to hail a cab.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 They don't get to laugh

Chapter 2.: Noblesse Oblige

The driver whipped through the streets in response to Miranda's sharp voice. She called the office and informed Megan that she had been promoted—effective _immediately_—and that she was to begin looking for a new junior assistant at once. The girl gasped and hung up without replying, leaving Miranda annoyed but not offended. At least she didn't burst out babbling, which would have been the typical response to such an announcement from the Dragon Lady.

Emily could go straight to hell. What had she ever been but a witless sycophant dragging at Miranda's Jimmy Choos? There were thousands of Emilys at _Runway_, and it looked as if _her_ Emily was a complete idiot. For Emily to say she was in _love_ with her? Of all the things girls had said to her over the years in order to get promoted, this one was by far the most pathetic! And so was her irrational jealousy. Paying for Andrea's hospitalization was an _opportunity,_ and Miranda never missed an opportunity.

The girl's family, she was sure, could never afford Mt. Sinai. Nor would whatever pitiful insurance the _Mirror_ offered cover it. When she recovered, Andrea would _owe_ her…quite a lot of money, if not her life. She would be in debt to the woman she had betrayed. Miranda smiled to herself as she dialed another number on her cell.

"Nigel? Miranda. I've fired Emily. Would you oversee my junior and make sure she doesn't hire someone too horrible? I've promoted her and she has to find me a new junior assistant."

"Okay" Nigel sounded both surprised and guarded, as well he might. Hiring assistants wasn't part of his job description. "I don't suppose I can ask _why_ you did it."

"You may not. Just see to it that the other girl finds someone I can live with. That's all."

"Right. Oh by the way…you _did_ get my email, I see, because Sophie says you've gone for the day."

"Yes. That's _all_, Nigel."

Nigel shook his head as he hung up, but he was grinning He dialed Jeffy's extension and when Jeffy said, "What is it?" Nigel said, "You owe me a hundred dollars. Miranda is on her way to the hospital."

"No!" Jeffy breathed in shocked delight.

"Yes. Although knowing Miranda, she'll make the girl's life miserable first. She doesn't forgive."

"Poor Andy."

"Yes, indeed."

The doctors at Andrea's hospital were the usual incompetent lot. You would think that a gunshot victim would be high on their list of priorities, but apparently the bullet wound had been to the shoulder and was sewn, set, and should heal nicely. What the doctors were worried about was the head injury Andrea had received after she was knocked down in the riot. Apparently, she had fallen and smacked her little head on the pavement.

She had yet to awaken, and the doctors were adamant that she should not be moved. Her parents in Ohio had been contacted and were on their way to New York via the _Runway_ jet, and she had informed the hospital that she would be making all the financial arrangements. That much, at least, was done. Now, sitting in a small, ghastly waiting room, she had time to think and plan.

Andrea would not be returning to the _Mirror_-- that was certain. She had already called and told them so. "Don't you think that's up to Andrea?" asked Andrea's boss in a more sarcastic tone than Miranda was accustomed to hearing.

"No, it is not", she informed him. "Not while I am covering her medical expenses. I would hardly send her out to get seriously injured _again_. She will not be returning. That's all."

"'That's _all_?' Wait a minute…don't tell me this is Ms. Miranda Priestly."

"Who I am is none of your concern."

Andrea's boss chuckled. "You're just going tell her you took it upon yourself to _quit her job_ for her? You really _are _a piece of work."

"I will _not_ be spoken to like that!" hissed Miranda. "I can have _you _out of a job with just one phone call to Rupert Murdoch. _Andrea—will—not—be—returning—that—is—all_." She hung up before the insufferable idiot could speak again.

When Andrea recovered, she would be placed safely back in the Elias-Clark fold. Not at _Runway_, of course, but Miranda had contacts at the _Times_, _New York, Vanity Fair_…surely among them there was _somewhere_ Andrea would consider worthy of her journalistic gifts, and that wouldn't be sending her out to get shot at by angry mobs.

Miranda shook her impeccably coiffed head. _Idiot girl_. She had thrown away the opportunity that a million girls would kill for, and slapped Miranda in the face while she did it. _Nobody_ slapped Miranda Priestly in the face.

She had brooded for nearly a year, trying to figure out what form her revenge should take. Simply blackballing the girl from all journalistic opportunities was not enough. Andrea would simply disappear back to Dogpatch or wherever the hell she'd come from, and Miranda wanted to _see_ her squirm. She wanted Andrea to know, in the end, just how _much_ she owed Miranda and she wanted to see the look in those big dark eyes when Andrea realized that she would never be able to pay the debt.

Voices at the door to the mercifully empty room made her look up. The doctor Miranda had spoken to was guiding a middle-aged couple in ghastly poly-blend coats towards her. She rose. These, then, must be Andrea's parents.

"Ms. Priestly?" The man came forward first with his hand out for her to shake. He had Andrea's friendly smile and straight, white teeth, but it was from her mother that she had gotten her eyes. Miriam Sachs hung back slightly, her gaze wary and curious as Miranda shook her husband's hand. "Yes. You're Andrea's father?"

"Mike Sachs." The man's grip was firm but not crushing. "And you're her ex-boss."

"That is correct. Won't you sit down?"

Miriam glanced up at her husband, who put his arm around her shoulders and guided her into one of the horrible plastic chairs. He sat beside her and Miranda seated herself across from them. "We understand from the doctor that you've taken it upon yourself to pay Andrea's hospital bills" Andrea's father said directly. "We want you to know that we are very grateful, but that it won't be necessary. We have enough money to care for our daughter, and we plan to take her home to Ohio as soon as she is well enough to be moved."

Years of negotiating with Irv and other publishing bigwigs kept Miranda's face in its usual cool mask. "Mr. Sachs, I do understand. My reasons for taking care of your daughter's expenses are my own. Suffice it to say that you will not have to worry about her medical care or your own living expenses while you remain in New York. With your permission, I would like to transfer Andrea to Mount Sinai as soon as she is able to be moved…I know a doctor there who is the best in his field as far as head injuries go, and I can recommend any number of hotels to you."

"_Why_ are you doing this?" Andrea's mother gazed at Miranda in disbelief. "When Andrea worked for you, we used to get emails from her at two in the morning and she was still at your office! You never showed the slightest interest in her writing ability, and you never gave her even one scrap of praise or thanks. I find it hard to believe that a woman like you would go to so much trouble for someone who was little more than an underpaid servant _and_ who left you at a major event without warning."

"_Noblesse oblige_", Miranda said ironically. "Andrea was one of the best assistants I ever had. That was why I asked her and not my _senior_ assistant—who had been with me for nearly three years—to go to Paris with me. I need the best possible team while I'm there, and normally my girls do not get to be on that team until they have worked for me for a year. Your daughter was asked after only eight months. I could give her no higher praise than that."

"I'm glad to hear it, but that doesn't necessarily answer my question" Miriam arched a slim brow and for a moment, looked so much like Andrea that Miranda found it disconcerting. Mike Sachs put his hand on his wife's. It was plain to see, Miranda thought, where Andrea got her taste for_ investigative_ journalism.

"I did answer you. _Noblesse oblige._ You know what that means, of course."

"Yes, and I'm afraid I still find it very hard to believe. I understood from Andrea that your other girl broke her leg right before you left for Paris. Did you pay _her _medical expenses?"

"No. In her case, her trust fund covered everything most adequately."

"Ms. Priestly" Mike Sachs shook his head, frowning. "As I said before, _we_ have enough money to see to Andy's medical needs. As kind as your offer is, we can't accept it. Andy would end up owing you thousands of dollars, and we would never want her to incur that kind of debt while she's still so young."

"Andrea would not have to repay any of the money. Whether she knows it or not, she did me a favor that I'm fairly sure saved my career." Andrea's parents looked at each other; clearly their daughter hadn't mentioned the benefit to them.

Miranda shrugged. "During the time she worked for me, there was a benefit for _Runway_ at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Normally, I only take my senior assistant to this event, but this year my senior assistant had contracted a rather nasty virus. The medicine she was taking for it impaired her ability to remember the names of the guests, so I asked Andrea to come as well and help. I am ashamed to say that my former husband chose to humiliate me by showing up at the benefit drunk. He insulted _my _boss, the chairman of Elias-Clark Publications, and might have cost me my job if Andrea hadn't distracted my boss with a question about John Cheever. Believe me, Mr. and Mrs. Sachs, this is the _least_ I can do. I don't like being in debt, either."

"Well…" Andrea's father said at last. Miranda fought to contain her jubilance. They were weakening! She knew they would. Now, to get Andrea to Sinai before she woke up.

"Why don't you have a word with Dr. Roberts?" Miranda suggested comfortingly. "He can fill you in on more of the details."

They thanked her and left the room slowly, still looking worried. They were smarter than Miranda had expected. Clearly, they knew that she had something in mind and they were probably thinking she would renege on the deal or ruin Andrea's career as the next Diane Sawyer or something. Tempting as that idea was, Miranda preferred something more subtle. Andrea would work, and if she worked hard, she could rise high.

She would simply never leave Miranda again.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 2 They don't get to laugh

Chapter 3.

My parent's faces were the first ones I saw when I woke up. I was still half-drugged from the pain meds they gave me, but I was so glad to see them I managed to slur out, "Himomadad."

"Andy!" My mother bent over and kissed my forehead. "Thank God! We were so worried!"

"S'okay. Whennjoo get here?"

"Just yesterday. You've been out for a couple of days."

"I have?" The last thing I remembered was being in the park.

"Yes. Miranda told us you'd been shot, and that you hit your head, too."

For a moment, the name didn't even register. "Shit", I said. I remembered, then, the crack of gunfire and the people coming towards me in a wave. My shoulder exploded with pain and when they slammed into us, I went right over backward, my notebook flying out of my hands. I didn't see who fired the shots; whoever it was just part of the seething mass of rioters.

"Yeah" my father smiled sadly at me. "They'll want to keep you a few more days."

"I gotta call work" I mumbled. Then, all of a sudden, it hit me. "Dad, did you say _Miranda_?"

"Yes. Do you feel up to talking?"

I didn't, but I nodded anyway. "Why were you talking to Miranda? I don't work at _Runway_ anymore."

"Honey…" Mom and Dad look uncomfortable. "Ms Priestley…Miranda…has offered to pay your medical expenses."

"I hope you told her no", I groaned. Dear God. The Dragon Lady wants to pay my hospital bills? This is not good. This is not good at _all_ .

Dad cleared his throat, and the sound sent a bolt of ice down my back. I woke up completely and almost managed to sit up until the swirling of the room convinced me otherwise. "Oh my _God_! Dad, you didn't!"

"She says she doesn't want repayment."

"And you _believed _her?!" I shook my head. "After everything I told you? Of _course _she wants repayment! She's probably trying to run you guys bankrupt just to punish me! Where the hell is a goddamn phone?!"

"Don't be hysterical, Ahn-dre-ah. It's bad for you."

At the sound of _that _voice, I almost passed out. What the hell was Miranda _doing _here?! It was like one of those horrible movies where the hero realizes his loved ones have all been brainwashed by the enemy. "Miranda, what are you up to? And don't bother to tell me whatever you told my parents. I want the truth."

She shrugged. "Because I felt like it. Is that enough?"

"No, it bloody well isn't! You never do anything without a reason. What do want with me? If you're trying to punish me by going through my parents—"

She waves a hand. "Obviously, the blow to your head is affecting your mind. We will talk when you feel better."

She swept through the door of my room, a slim, impeccably dressed woman with silver hair. Anyone would think she was visiting a relative…not even Emily was with her.

"Andy…" Mom stroked my hair gently away from my face. "Please don't be upset. You're in a very good hospital…much better than the one on your insurance. Dad and I could cover you, but with the recession…" she bit her lip. "It was just too good an offer to refuse."

I sank back down into my pillows. "What did she tell you?"

"That you saved her job. She said you helped her at a benefit. Her husband showed up drunk and you saved the situation. She wanted to repay you for that."

I remembered the benefit. It was the closest I ever came to seeing Miranda lose her cool. Her husband showed up an hour late, complaining loudly about being called "Mr. Priestly" and being unable to get a drink at the bar. The smell of scotch wafted off him from three feet away. _Then_ he said to Irv Ravitz, "Why don't _you_ get me a drink? They'd have to listen to you, wouldn't they little guy?"

Well, everyone at _Runway_ knows you _never_ refer to Irv Ravitz' height (or the lack thereof). Miranda turned white and I heard Emily gasp. Irv was pale, too, and his face was like stone. And me? I panicked and threw myself into the silence like a suicide throwing themselves off of a building. "Mr. Ravitz?"

He blinked and turned to me. "Yes?"

"I've been just dying to ask you…" I babbled, widening my eyes as far as they would go, "Is it true your father used to edit all of John Cheever's essays?" I smiled, hoping to distract him from killing Miranda's husband. To my amazement, it worked. Irv took my arm and linked his through it. "Yes", he said pleasantly. "In fact, he and my father were friends. Let me get _you _a drink and I'll tell you all about it. Are you a fan of Cheever?"

"Oh yes!" I gasped with relief. As Irv led me away (trying to peer down my dress every few steps, I might add), I glanced over my shoulder. Miranda was hugging her husband, but her eyes were riveted on me. And then the unthinkable happened.

She mouthed, _"Thank you."_

I didn't hear a thing Irv said all the way to the bar. I still couldn't believe what I'd seen. In six months of working for Miranda, I had accepted that she would never thank me or anyone else for anything. She lived and breathed _Runway—_the magazine _itself_. Nothing else existed, including the people who worked there. And she had let me know in no uncertain terms that I completely incompetent 90 of the time.

Thinking of that moment, the first time she thanked me, made me wonder if maybe she had been telling the truth. Nigel believed that she would pay him back for screwing him out of that James Holt job, but all she had done (that I knew about), was throw him a party in Amsterdam when he and James got married. It didn't seem like much repayment to me.

And her screwing him like that made me realize something: I was _turning into her_.

I didn't want that, ever. Miranda may have had awesome clothes and lots of money and power, but what else did she have? Aside from her two daughters, who did she have in her life to really care about her? Not "Miranda Priestly" but _her_—just Miranda. If Paris taught me anything, it taught me that some sacrifices aren't worth it. I knew she would never forgive me for just quitting like that, but I couldn't stay.

But now here she was. In my life again. And I didn't know why. After a year and a half of total silence (I didn't change my email, after all, and Miranda could easily have called me at work), what would make her run to my (financial) rescue? She always had a plan, and I figured she must want to use me for something.

"Get out of it", I whispered. "Do whatever it takes. If it means I have to come back to Ohio with you, then fine. I can always get a job with the Cincinnati _Herald_. Just _get out of it_. Miranda never gives anything away for free, and I'm sure she hasn't forgiven me for skipping out on her in Paris. She wants something, and she's trying to get it." I sighed. "Can someone get my cell phone? I need to call my boss. Then I'm going to see what I can find out. Nigel or Emily might tell me something."

"Andy, honey—"

"_Please_, Dad."

He gave in and took my phone out of the drawer. Lying flat in bed, I put it up to my ear and hit speed dial.

"_New York Mirror_. Dan Hartwell speaking."

"Hi, Dan? It's Andy."

"Andy!" I could see Dan's smile through the phone, and breathed a little sigh of relief that he sounded glad to hear from me. "So good to hear your voice! We've been worried about you. Are you out of the hospital?"

"Not yet. I just woke up today."

"Wow. And you called here. Dedication! I like that. Listen, I don't know if now is the best time to tell you, but your former boss called here and said you wouldn't be coming back to us. Is she right?"

I closed my eyes. Goddamn it! What the _hell _was Miranda doing to my life?! "No, she is NOT right. Definitely not. I'm sorry she called you…she's been hanging around lately—no doubt she's looking for a way to ruin my life while I'm out of commission. My parents told me today that she wants to pay my hospital bills. Can you believe that?"

"Nope. Doesn't sound a thing like the Dragon Lady."

"Right. So I have got to get out of here before I'm transferred to another hospital. I'm afraid she's going to do something to my parents."

There was a pause and Dan cleared his throat. "Andy, I don't think that's it." His voice sounded funny, like he was trying to decide whether or not to say something else. "What?" I asked in alarm. "Did she say something to you? If so, tell me. I have to know what's going on so I can do damage-control!"

"She said something about how she wouldn't be sending you out to be seriously injured again. That doesn't sound like someone who's planning to hurt your parents. Or you, for that matter."

"Dan, I know her. For whatever she has in mind, _of course_ she needs me whole and healthy! That's a given. Maybe she won't do it by going through my parents, but trust me, this is not good. She hasn't spoken to me in over a year—not since Paris. She's cut me dead the few times I've ever seen her out of the office. That's why when she gave all that money to FIT, I asked you to send Kim to cover it, remember?"

"Uh-huh."

"So since she obviously hates me, why would she offer to spend thousands of dollars on my hospital bills?"

"I'm not sure she does hate you, Andy."

"Well _I _am" I retorted. "And if she thinks she can get me to come back to _Runway_ and be her slave again, she's got another think coming. I am NEVER going to work for her again in this lifetime."

"Andy…" Dan cleared his throat again. I felt icy dread begin to collect in the pit of my stomach.

"What?"

"You already do."

"_What?!_ Are you saying you're _firing _me?! My God, Dan! I would have thought that you of all people--!" Of all the people at the _Mirror_, only Dan knew the whole sorry tale of my tenure at _Runway_, and he'd been both amused and sympathetic.

"—_Andy_. Dan took a deep breath. "She bought us."

"What the hell are you talking about?!"

"Elias Clark. The _Mirror_ is now an Elias Clark publication. I just got the news this morning."

I went cold and numb all over. So numb I dropped the phone into my lap. I fumbled to pick it up, dropped it again, and finally managed to get it to my ear. "Oh my God."

"Yeah."

"Oh Dan! Jesus, I am so fucking _sorry_!" I heard my voice catch and hated myself for it.

"No worries, Andy. I'm staying. Most of the staff is. Except for Kim—she's going to _Gracious Home_, and Danny from sports—he's off to _Sports Illustrated_, and…"

"…And me."

"And you. I'm sorry, Andy. It's a _fait accompli_. My hands are tied."

I couldn't talk. Couldn't think.

"Andy? Are you okay? Say something, will you?"

"Yes" I said faintly. "I'm here. Maybe this is it. Maybe it's to show me how far her power goes. I've already told my parents to take me back to Cincinnati if that's what it takes. I guess I'm lucky she won't give a damn about anyone living in Cincinnati."

"I wouldn't, if I were you. _Think _about it, Andy. The woman got _her_ boss to buy a nothing newspaper just to ensure _she_ could keep an eye on you. Obsession like that is serious, and I bet you anything that even if you go back to Ohio, she'll come after you. And _this _timeshe might be mad enough to take it out on your folks. Your best shot is to go to her and ask her what she wants and then do it. If she's _that _determined to get what she wants, then capitulation should bore her, and the faster she gets bored, the more likely she is to leave you alone. Get it?"

I did. I was going to die, that was certain, but I did. And I knew Dan was probably right. Miranda's husband may have left her because he was tired of standing in her shadow, but I would bet money that _she'd_ gotten tired of _him _long ago.

"Okay" I sighed.

"Atta girl. It's probably going to suck…no doubt about that, but hang on. If she won't give you a reference by the time everything's all over, then _I _sure as hell will."

"Thanks, Dan. You're the best."

"No problem. Take care. And _call me_ if you need anything, okay? Seriously."

"Thanks, I will."

I hung up. My parents were both staring at me. I punched in another number from memory. "Andrea Sachs for Nigel Kipling, please."

"Please hold". Sophie didn't even sound surprised. I wondered if she remembered who I was.

"Yes?" Nigel's phone manner, though warmer than Miranda's, is very verbally similar.

"It's Andy."

"Ah. I thought I'd be hearing from you soon."

"What's she up to? My boss just told me Elias Clark bought the _Mirror_."

"Did they? That's odd. I don't remember her mentioning it when we were watching _American Idol_."

"Come _on_, Nigel!"

"_You_ come on, Six. You know (or should know) by now that Miranda Priestley does not explain herself."

"She'd be more likely to talk to you than to anyone. Do I _have_ to call Emily on this? I'd really rather not deal with her gloating right now."

"Not a problem. She quit."

"What?! When?"

"Three days ago. She left to go to _Vogue_."

"Huh. Why?"

"Unrequited lust and ungratified ambition."

I couldn't believe it. "I guess she got passed over for promotion again, but what the hell is the deal with the other part?"

"Andy" Nigel said with an exaggerated sigh. "I'm very busy. We'll do lunch and talk next week."

"I am _not_ coming back to _Runway_!"

"Who said anything about _Runway_? You're going to the _New Yorker_."

Chuckling, Nigel hung up to my stunned silence. I dropped the phone into my lap again, but this time it was on purpose.

The _New Yorker_.

I had dreamed of working there ever since I was twelve years old. And Miranda knew it.

It was all too much. I felt tears on my cheeks, and my mother darted to the side of the bed with tissues. "What happened, honey? Is it your job? If they want to fire you, maybe Miranda can speak to them—"

"It's not that" I choked. I took some Kleenex and laughed. "It's s promotion. I'm going to work for the _New Yorker. _God help me. She really is Satan in heels."

My parents stared at me, and then at each other. I don't think either of them new what to say. That was okay because neither did I. I hoped Miranda would not come back for at least a couple of days. I needed time to plan my counterattack.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 2 They don't get to laugh

Miranda stretched out in her chair with a deep sigh. The day had been a long, but very satisfying one. Nigel had informed her that Andrea had called him to see what was going on, and that he had, as instructed, given her Miranda's little surprise. She was fairly certain that Dan Hartwell had given her the other little surprise as well. The silly girl was on her way to knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Miranda always got her way, sooner or later.

When she arrived at the _New Yorker_, she would find herself once again an assistant, this time to the current editor of the food page, a personal friend of Miranda's. Theo was a raving bitch, but like Miranda herself, he recognized talent and rewarded it--especially good writing. He would reward Andrea with an offer that she couldn't refuse if she did her work well enough, but first he would make her life a living hell. Miranda admired him greatly; Theo Marsden made _her_ look like a pussycat.

Andrea would be jumping through hoops again, unable to do anything about it. And she would be unable to avoid seeing Miranda. Theo profiled nearly every restaurant she favored and frequently sent her suggestions for new ones. She must remember to email him about Andrea's tendency towards fatness…he would teach her to eat properly, so she could develop her palette and at the same time not turn into the Goodyear Blimp. (Miranda hoped Andrea's taste buds hadn't been permanently destroyed by MacDonald's or Pizza Hut.)

Miriam Sachs had hesitantly mentioned that Andrea was very upset when she heard of Miranda's intention to pay her bills. Miranda smiled slightly in the dimness of her office. The girl was no fool, at least. She wished she could be a fly on the wall when Andrea first met Theo. And when she learned that Miranda had been paying for her parents' hotel. _And _talking with them every day.

She was actually surprised about that last one herself. People outside of Manhattan, London, or Paris usually held little interest for her. In fact people _in_ those three places held little interest for Miranda if they weren't part of the fashion industry or a member of her immediate family. But Mike and Miriam Sachs had proved to be intelligent, well-read, and socially conscious—something she rather liked just as a flavoring in personal character, of course. Miriam was sharp-witted and intense; Mike was more relaxed, buoyed by a near-constant optimism—all qualities they had passed on to their daughter.

Miranda reassured Miriam that Andrea's distress was not surprising. "I have a reputation for ruthlessness" she said with a cool smile. "Well-deserved, perhaps, but you don't stay alive long in the fashion industry without a good, sharp set of teeth. I'll go and see her myself in a few days. I think she'll want to hear what I have to tell her."

"She says you got her into the _New Yorker_" Mike said ruefully. "Then she said you were Satan in heels."

"All my assistants say that at some point." Mike laughed, and so did Miriam.

And today, when she visited Andrea in her very nicely appointed room at Mt. Siani, the girl's reaction had, in the end, been all she had wished.

She had been sitting up in bed when Miranda walked in, talking to her mother. Miriam rose instinctively when Miranda entered the room, and Andrea's eyes had grown darker as they observed the gesture. "How are you feeling, Andrea?"

"Much better, Miranda. Thank you." An attempt at guarded neutrality. _She really shouldn't bother_, Miranda thought with a mental shake of her head. _She's terribly bad at it._

"Are you feeling well enough to hear what I have to say?"

A frosty incline of the head—a gesture Miranda recognized as one of her own. She had to bite back a smile.

"You know by now that you will not be returning to the _Mirror_. Irv wants you at the _New Yorker_."

"Uh-huh. Yes."

"_Andy",_ Miriam prompted in a whisper. Andrea looked into Miranda's eyes for the first time. The warmth that usually lit their dark depths was completely absent. "Thank you, Miranda. I've always wanted to work at the _New Yorker_. I owe you a great deal. I understand from my parents that you took it upon yourself to pay my hospital bills."

Miranda did smile, then. "Think nothing of it."

Andrea almost…_almost_…rolled her eyes, and caught herself. With the discipline that came from years of practice, Miranda schooled her smile to stay calm and cool. Inside, she felt like laughing. She knew the girl must be well on her way to biting through her own tongue.

"What will I be doing there?" Andrea asked tonelessly.

"You'll be an assistant to Theo Marsden."

Andrea closed her eyes. "An assistant. Again."

"That is correct" Miranda said pleasantly. "Theo is in charge of the food pages. I understand your fiancé is a chef? You should already have some knowledge of the subject."

Andrea said something in a strangled voice. Miranda cocked her head. "I'm sorry?"

"I said, we're not engaged. We're not even together anymore."

Miranda nodded. "I see."

Better and better! That whining young man was half the reason Andrea had sometimes been less than attentive to her work. Nigel had remarked that shortly before Paris, Andrea had mentioned wryly that her personal life was falling apart. Her friends were an undisciplined, uncommitted lot, apparently—always angry at Andrea for being at the office when Miranda needed her rather than out with them.

"Theo knows and respects good writing, Andrea", Miranda raised a brow as the girl's expression remained stony. "He will ask you to help write and coordinate his reviews. Do a good job for him, and you can go places."

Andrea laughed, more than a little bitterly. "I'm looking forward to it."

"Good."

Humble pie was the foulest-tasting food in the world…that was why Miranda mostly refused to eat it. And why Andrea was making that face. But it didn't matter…she'd get over her pique once she realized the opportunity she'd been presented with.

She'd left not long after to have dinner with Theo. He met her at Lutece. "So, I understand you have a little present for me, darling." Theo air-kissed both of Miranda's cheeks. "To what do I owe the honor?"

"You're the only person I know who trains their assistants as well as I do."

"Ah yes. I do like them to be well broken-in. But this is the one who abandoned you in Paris, yes? How do I know she won't go home, wagging her little tail behind her?"

"She won't. I'm paying for both her hospital expenses and her parents' accommodations. In fact, I'm thinking of having them to dinner—they're quite charming people, really."

"My dear, you_ are_ evil."

Miranda laughed. "No. Just determined."

"And the reason for this..." Theo made quotation marks with his fingers "'determination'? Hundreds of your assistants have come and gone. What's so special about this one?"

Miranda paused. It was a question she had been putting off answering ever since Emily left. What _was_ so special about Andrea? Theo was right; hundreds of her assistants had quit on her—more often than not in the middle of something important, although Andrea was the first to ever abandon her during Fashion Week—so why did she feel such a burning desire for revenge?

Perhaps it was because Andrea had seen beyond the mask. Stephen had his lawyer call her the very night she landed in Paris. The divorce papers had already been sent to the private fax in her suite, and even though Miranda had known her marriage was dying, seeing the words in black and white were simply the last straw. She had just gotten out of the shower and she sat in her bathrobe, staring, for what seemed like hours until Andrea's gentle tap had sounded on her door. Miranda had numbly told her to come in before she realized that she wasn't even dressed. And then, like a complete idiot, she had found herself babbling hysterically about Stephen and the press and the girls and where was she going to place Donatella Versace at the table and Andrea had been so gentle, so sympathetic…actually asking if there was anything _she _could do, silly child. Miranda managed to pull herself together long enough to say that all she needed was for Andrea to do her job. When the girl was gone, she had collapsed into floods of tears and vowed not to answer her door again that night even if Lagerfeld himself came pounding on it.

She had managed to pull herself together over the next two days by sheer force of will. She had to do battle with Irv and Jacqueline; she was damned if she would let them see her as anything other than in control. She sensed Andrea watching her through the rounds of shows and parties, but she managed to laugh and smile, even flirt a little, and wave Andrea off when she disappeared with Christian Thompson. Thompson was a devious bastard, and for a moment, Miranda wondered if Andrea knew about Jacqueline, but she dismissed the thought almost as soon as she had it; Thompson was also a notorious tomcat, and Andrea had been looking very well of late. Let the girl have a little fun…a night of hot sex in Paris was far from the worst that could happen to her. And he wouldn't be able to find out anything from her—Miranda had made sure that _nobody _knew what was brewing at American _Runway_.

The second shocker had been when Andrea came running to her when she found out from Christian that Irv had been planning to replace her with Jacqueline Follet. The girl was positive Miranda had no idea, and she had absolute faith that if warned in time, the woman of steel could save everything. That kind of faith was irreplaceable, and looking into her assistant's frightened and concerned dark eyes, Miranda had been touched in a way that she rarely had been in her life. This girl _cared_ about what happened to her. She was _loyal_—a rare and miraculous quality in Miranda's world. She knew then that the girl was ready, and that she, Miranda, would do everything in her power to ensure that Andrea would have the career she wanted.

And then…the dissolution. Or disillusion, if one preferred. Andrea's stunned and horrified expression when Miranda explained why and how she had secured _Runway_'s future by making sure Jacqueline was no longer a threat and how Andrea's choice to come to Paris was a similar type of decision had tormented Miranda for over a year. The girl had turned white and silent, and when Miranda turned around on the steps, she wasn't there. She was walking away, tossing her cell into the fountain as she went.

Irate, Miranda had dialed Elias-Clarke human resources only to discover that prior to tossing her phone into the fountain, Andrea had beaten her to the punch. Sherry told Miranda that Andrea had said two words—"I quit"—and then hung up. Her things were gone from her suite when Miranda arrived back in the evening, and the emptiness hit her like a kick.

The crazed rush of Fashion Week and the necessity of dealing with her lawyer and Stephen's paperwork had kept her numb for a while. Emily arrived within twenty-four hours, on crutches, wearing Valentino and an attitude of smug self-righteousness. It was a relief to know that Emily didn't expect to be privy to her private life.

But after Fashion Week, when Miranda had returned home, the anger had begun to build. She even saw the girl once in the street and the girl had the audacity to _wave_ at her, something which simultaneously amused and infuriated her. Was Andrea really _that _naive? Surely she knew that she was no longer a part of the Priestley universe—but it was just like Andrea to act like nothing was wrong. _You can do _anything_, right Andrea? _

From then on, whenever Emily or the new girl did something for her, all Miranda could think about was how Andrea would have done it, and she became even angrier. And when she heard on the news about the riot, and had seen the girl fall, and had felt her skin grow icy and her stomach fall into her Jimmy Choos that she had decided enough was enough. She refused to torment herself any further by playing what if? If the wretched girl still affected her that much, then she would simply be placed back within Miranda's reach. And she would pay dearly for disturbing her peace of mind.

Miranda shrugged. "She works hard. She can write. And she'll break her ass for you if she knows it will lead her to getting what she wants. You need the best, Theo, and she is the best."

"Uh-huh." Theo took a glass of wine from a hovering waiter and circled it in his glass before taking a sip. "Fine" he said curtly to the waiter. The young man scurried away at once. "Frankly, my dear, I was surprised when I heard that Elias-Clarke bought the New York _Mirror_. It doesn't have very much circulation—a bit too left-wing, even for New York."

Miranda raised a hand indifferently, keeping her face carefully blank. "Who knows."

Theo arched an eyebrow, but didn't press the subject. "Well, I look forward to meeting the little lamb chop. Send her along as soon as she's on her feet. That bitch Rico left us with a pile of scut work and Shay is quite overwhelmed."

"Of course."

"And speaking of being overwhelmed, I heard your other assistant quit. You do go through them, don't you?"

"I seem to."

"She's over at _Vogue_ now, isn't she? I have a friend there in accessories. He says she's already been moved up to senior assistant—the first one was promoted and the second one left to get married. Anna's very pleased with her."

"I'm sure" Miranda rolled her eyes. Theo winked. Although they weren't outright enemies, Miranda and Anna had never been overly fond of each other.

Yes, altogether very satisfying. Miranda pulled her thoughts back into the present. The doctors said Andrea would be released in a week. They had insisted that they take Miranda out to dinner when Andrea was well enough to join them. Miranda couldn't wait for _that_ little soiree, even if it meant eating somewhere ghastly.

Her opening gambit had been played. Now she just had to wait and see what Andrea's would be.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 2 They don't get to laugh

Recon Work and Expensive Cantaloupe

By the time I got out of the hospital, I was furious. Miranda had completely taken over my life, my job, AND my parents! I don't know how in the hell she made them forget all of the emails and phone calls I had sent them during my _Runway_ tenure, but by the time I was released, they were both calling her "Miranda" and she was talking to them like they were real, actual people that she was interested in. It reminded me of those little kids who know how to charm grownups while terrorizing their peers. She started coming in along with them when they visited me, and I could see her watching me with an expression that I couldn't read when they talked to me about the sights they'd been seeing and the shows they'd been going to in New York. They invited her out to dinner right in front of me, and she smiled and thanked them as graciously as if they _hadn't _been nobodies from Ohio that probably couldn't afford much above Benihana.

Finally, with my shoulder taped up and stitches still in my head, I stood moodily in front of my closet, trying to figure out what to wear. I regretted sending Emily most of my _Runway_ clothes now. I advised Dad to get a table at the restaurant he and I had gone to the last time he visited me in New York; I figured while it wasn't exactly A-list, it was respectable enough that Miranda might deign to be seen there, and not so costly it would bankrupt my parents. I wished I could call Nate. He would have known just the right place, and he would have been able to brief me on Theo Marsden. I just knew he was highly respected in the food world and a personal friend of Martha Stewart. Nate and I had tried the long-distance thing for a while, but it was halfhearted. _Runway_ had pretty much killed our trust in each other and in the relationship, and we split for good not long after I started at the _Mirror_.

After much rooting and rummaging, I managed to dig out a black Prada turtleneck and a Chanel jacket that I had kept. I added a pair of black pants and boots and did what I could with my hair and makeup, using my ordinary drugstore products. I grimaced at the result. I was okay for dinner with my parents—even dinner at a "nice" restaurant—but I was in no way _Runway-_worthy, and I wasn't looking forward to Miranda's famous head-to-to freezing stare.

"Honey", my mother said softly. "We don't have to be there until eight o' clock. You have time to run over to Bloomingdales and get something a little dressier, if you want. You can use my Visa card."

"No thanks" I sighed. "It wouldn't make any difference. Miranda buys things straight off the Paris catwalks, not at Bloomingdales. I would be amazed to hear if she stooped even as low as Bergdorf Goodman. And besides, we may have the table _reserved_ for eight, but we need to _be_ there by 7:30. Miranda will want a drink first, and she hates waiting."

"Don't look so grim, kiddo" Dad said, giving me a quick hug. "This is just us saying thank you. She really has done quite a lot for us while we've been here. I'm glad she agreed to come."

"I still don't understand why you couldn't have just stayed at my apartment" I mumbled. My parents exchanged guilty looks and I sighed a little. I _did_ understand, of course. Who wants to stay in a crappy studio apartment when they could have a suite at a nice hotel, pre-paid?

"The car is here!" my mother said excitedly. "This is so nice! I have nothing against taxis, of course, but it's a treat to ride in something that doesn't smell bad."

I rolled my eyes and Dad laughed. We went downstairs and climbed into the familiar black Elias-Clarke town car. The driver wasn't one that I recognized and I was glad. When we pulled up in front of the restaurant, Dad tried to tip the driver but he waved it away. "All taken care of", he said.

Miranda greeted us as soon as we walked in. "Mike, Miriam, Ahn-dre-ah…" she air-kissed Mom's cheek and shook Dad's hand. Turning to me, she smiled her cool smile as her eyes moved from my gelled and pony-tailed head to the tips of my boots. Her eyebrows rose just a trifle and she gave the barest of nods. I guess I looked better than she had been expecting. "Shall we have drinks first? This place does a very good dry martini, Mike. I believe you like those? And Miriam, I strongly recommend the house white. What would you like, Ahn-dre-ah?"

_I thought_ my _parents asked_ YOU _to dinner_, I wanted to say, but managed to bite my tongue. "Glass of wine sounds perfect" I said.

"Lovely." Miranda led us into the bar. "Ramon said our table would be ready in a few moments."

The bartender nearly fainted when he saw Miranda. My folks were amused, but after my time at _Runway_, people's reactions to her no longer amazed me. He ignored several people in front of us to wait on her, and she ordered our drinks with a patrician lack of embarrassment at the stir she was causing.

Roughly thirty seconds after we got our drinks, the overjoyed maitre'd beckoned for us to follow him and led us to a quiet table with Miranda in the lead. My parents followed, looking bemused. It had fully dawned on them that despite the fact that _they'd _issued the dinner invitation, Miranda had taken charge of the whole thing. I wondered if she'd order the meals for us as well. I was kind of surprised that Miranda seemed so at home in this restaurant—she usually went to places like Pastis.

"I used to come here occasionally with my first husband" Miranda said, proving that she had not lost her eerie power to read minds. "The steaks are very good. So are the lobster and the oysters. They make vinaigrette for the salad that's absolutely delicious…" she glanced at me. I took the hint and ordered the salad and some grilled chicken. Dad and Miranda ordered steaks, and Mom surprised us all by ordering oysters on the half-shell. She almost never eats shellfish. It just went to show the effect Miranda has on people. When she talks to you, she has a way of making you feel like you should act on _any _suggestion she makes as if she meant it especially for you.

"Well, we just wanted to say thank you…" my mother said shyly once the waiter had taken our orders. "You've been so generous to us…taking care of Andy and everything else."

Miranda waved an elegant hand. "It was my pleasure."

_I bet it was_. I took a forkful of salad. The vinaigrette _was_ delicious.

"So what is this Theo Marsden guy like?" Dad asked. "Is he a friend of yours?"

"I've known him for years. I met him when I was working as a stylist in Paris and he was an assistant at _Gastronomie_. He is an expert on French and Italian cuisine, and he takes very good care of his assistants, as I do." Miranda smiled at me. "When does your doctor say you can return to work, Ahn-dre-ah?"

"I can go half-days in about a week" I didn't bother to add that there are no such things as half days in journalism. Whether I was at _Runway_ or the _Mirror_, I was there when they wanted me, period. Working for Theo Marsden wasn't likely to be any different.

"Good. Theo will be pleased. One of his other assistants just quit. Shay Vanderhof will be your senior for a while, but he'll be leaving soon to go to the French Culinary Institute. Then it will be your job to find a junior for yourself."

"Right back where I started from." I said. Mom frowned at me.

"Not really. Theo has enormous influence. He will expect a lot from you, but so will any high-powered editor. And he is very close to your editor-in-chief. Impress him and you may find yourself a contributing editor."

I didn't believe her. Everything Miranda had done so far seemed so out-of-character that I could only assume there was some as-yet hidden master plan. "Well" I sighed. "We'll see, won't we?"

Miranda smiled faintly. "It's up to you, Ahn-dre-ah."

"That's right." Dad said with an encouraging smile of his own. I could have hit him. The last thing I needed was a pep talk! I knew this woman…they didn't. I pitied her. I admired her, and I was terrified of her. In Paris I had seen her vulnerable, and I knew that for me to leave right after that must have seemed like a betrayal. And Miranda wouldn't be inclined to help someone who'd betrayed her, so what was she doing? What did she really want?

I had a snowball's chance in hell of finding out, but since when did that ever stop me?

A week later, I was sitting with Nigel in a small bistro where half a cantaloupe cost eight dollars.

"_No_, Six."

"Four" I said irritably. "And why _not_, for God's sake?!"

"Because I only tolerate Machiavellian drama _at work_. I am not at work now, so I refuse to get involved."

Nigel was at his most irritating. "Do you want me to call you at _Runway_, then?" I said in exasperation.

"You can try. I have voice mail. Sometimes I answer it."

"_Damn_ it, Nigel! I know you know _something_. You're probably closer to Miranda than anyone at the magazine! Can I promise you dinner at La Cote Basque?"

"No. I'm on a diet."

"Just answer me yes or no, then" I sighed. "Did she do this to get back at me or not?"

Nigel studied me for a long moment. "Partially", he said finally.

"And the other part?" I waited for him to elaborate, but he merely sipped his Pellegrino. I knew from experience he wouldn't say any more than that.

I had been hitting tons of brick walls in my reconnaissance work. I tracked Emily to _Vogue_, but she hung up on me as soon as she heard my voice and fired off an extremely vitriolic email to my old address, virtually threatening me with a restraining order if I ever spoke to her again. It didn't surprise me that she blamed me for whatever happened after I left. On the other hand, any guilt I had about Emily and Parisvanished once I was out of _Runway_. From my first day working there, Emily had acted like one of Cinderella's nasty stepsisters, and when you consider that half the Paris clothes I sent to her were size two _and _designers that _she_ liked, I figured I'd paid my dues. I even threw in those to-die-for Chanel boots. (Our shoe size was the one thing we had in common).

With Emily and Nigel both stonewalling me, I was clearly going to have to take a less direct route to the truth.

"I wish you the best of luck, Six" Nigel said quietly. "Did I tell you that I was going to Paris?"

I blinked; Nigel's going to Paris was nothing unusual.

Smiling, he withdrew a copy of _WWD_ from inside his coat. It was open to an article entitled: _Nouvelle Aube_: _Kipling Takes Over_ _Runway Francais_.

"You're going to be in charge of French _Runway_? I gasped. "Oh Nige, that's wonderful!" I jumped up and hugged him. He patted me awkwardly, but he looked pleased. "I can't wait, Six. _Cannot wait._ James is coming with me, and we have a rather lovely little apartment all set up."

"I'm so glad!" I grinned and raised my glass, _"À votre santé, mon bon ami. Je souhaite tout le meilleur vous."_

"_Merci, mon cher. Je vous manquerai._" Nigel returned the toast. "When did you learn to speak French, by the way?"

"It was for Paris. I kept it up even after…after everything happened because I figured it would come in handy, and it kind of helped distract me, you know?" Nigel nodded. "I'm studying Spanish, too. _"¡Hola, amigo! ¿Cómo está usted este día agradable?"_

"Very good. I'll let you know if a job with Spanish _Runway_ opens up. I'd particularly like to do a piece on that lovely little boutique where you bought those charming…clogs, weren't they?"

I groaned and shook my head. "Don't remind me!"

Nigel was referring to an ill-fated incident in which Miranda had caught me without _Runway_ footwear. I'm sorry, but five-inch stiletto heels should NEVER be part of anyone's work uniform! I spent my first few weeks black and blue from wiping out on them—Miranda's demands were delivered at such a furious rate that I _ran_ everywhere, when I didn't even have a lot of practice _walking_ in shoes like that—and by the end of the day, my feet felt like they'd been pressed in a medieval vise. I got into the habit of keeping a pair of my normal shoes in a desk drawer out of her sight, and putting them on once I was out of the office, but one day I managed to smack into her in the lobby, right as she was about to board the elevator.

I backed away and nodded, as per the procedure. No one _ever_ rides in the elevator with Miranda unless she specifically tells them to. She gave her head a little jerk sideways, so I followed her in, wondering what I did this time. As soon as the doors slid shut, Miranda looked down at my feet and asked—too quietly—"Ahn-dre-ah, who designed those?"

I could not, _could not _tell her they were Mootsies Tootsies.

"I…uh…can't remember." I smiled weakly, hoping a little humor would help. Miranda raised one eyebrow. "You _cahn't _remember?"

I winced; I was in for it. When Miranda's normally faint accent thickens like that, you are about to be chewed out, big-time.

"It was when I was in…Barcelona! That's right, Barcelona!" I babbled, inspiration coming to me from nowhere. "I got them over there…I can't even remember the _store _name now! It was a while ago."

"They are not acceptable for the office. Get some other shoes from the Closet, and bring up my coffee. That's all."

"I still have those clogs." I pulled myself back to the present. "Listen, Nigel? If you won't tell me what's going on with Miranda, will you at least tell me about Theo Marsden? I start tomorrow and I know it's probably going to be hellish, but I'd still like to know if there are any pitfalls I can avoid."

Nigel sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "Theo Marsden…" he said slowly "is basically Miranda in a gay man's body."

"Wonderful."

"We used to date, in fact. Until home started to seem too much like work to me. It did _not _end well. You might not want to mention me at all while you're there. "

"Okay."

"Fantastic sense of style, of course. Very funny. Charming, if he likes you—your job will be to make him like you, but somehow, I think that will be the easy part. A total harpy when he doesn't like you. Excellent writer. Unlike our leader, he _will_ want to know if you can write. He would rather eat, socialize, and bitch, so a lot of the writing will probably be your job. Eats his own weight in foods that contain Alfredo sauce and never gains an ounce…I hate him for that."

"I'm sure I will too" we both laughed. "What about this Shay Vanderhof? Miranda said I would be reporting to him until he left for cooking school."

"Ah, Shay. One of the unsung heroes of the Marsden enclave. A sweet, gentle masochist who has been with Theo for four years without getting to bed with him once. You'll love him. Everyone there does, and_ he_ will love _you_, which will make your job a lot easier."

"You sound like you know him personally", I said, amazed. Nigel grinned at me. A genuine, full-throttle, impish grin. "I should. He's my cousin."

"Get outta here!" I cried.

"Nope. No kidding. We lived a block from each other all the time we were growing up. I've told him all about you, and he's going to be looking out for you. He knows everything about Theo, so you be sure and pay better attention to him than you did to poor, luckless Emily."

"Definitely."

"Oh, and Six? I want you to pay attention to something else."

"What?"

"Miranda paid me back."

I was totally confused, and I must have had a particularly blank look on my face, because Nigel huffed and rolled his eyes. "For my _not getting the job with James, _Six. She paid me back."

I still didn't get it. "So? I mean, of course it's good and I'm happy for you, but what has that got to do with my situation?"

"It _means_, my obtuse little friend, she pays back the_ good_ as well as the bad, and your time with her wasn't _all_ bad."

I snorted. "I wish I had your optimism."

"I wish you did, too. Nothing is drearier than a size-six pessimist."

"I am NOT a size-six pessimist, I am a size-four cynic, thank you very much."

"Tomato, tomahto." Nigel rolled his eyes again and his cell went off. He looked at it and nodded. "I'm afraid I have to run. Don't be a stranger, dear heart. You have my email."

I stood when he did and we exchanged the usual air-kisses. "By the way" he said offhandedly as he shrugged into his ultra-hip trench coat. "Serena asked how you were."

"Serena?" For a minute I didn't know who Nigel was talking about. Then I remembered: Emily's knockout friend from the beauty department—a dead ringer for Giselle Bundchen who was nice enough not to laugh at me more than once or twice when I first came to _Runway._

"Serena Reichardt, _from the beauty department_? How can you not remember her?! She's the one who taught you about the existence of mascara and beat your eyebrows into submission. She's also one of our Emily's closest friends"

"_Yes,_ I remember now. Of course. Tell her I said hello and I'm fine. It was nice of her to ask."

Nigel groaned. "Dear _God_, you are wearing your Cincinnati on the outside today! Is subtlety completely wasted on you?! _Think_ about it. _Au revoir et bonne chance_."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 2 They don't get to laugh

Mini-Thee

I ended up calling Nigel a couple of days before I started with Theo Marsden for the most mundane of reasons.

"What should I wear?" I asked bluntly as soon as Nigel said, "This had better be _important_."

"Do you have any of your old _Runway_ gear?"

"Only a couple of pieces. I gave most of that stuff to Emily."

"Ahhhh…" Nigel sighed in exasperation. "Idiot child. I could respect you more if you sold it on Ebay…it might have paid your rent for a year. All right. You no longer work for us, so I can _not_ loan you anything from the Closet—let's make that clear from the start."

"Okay. What do I wear?"

"You wear what I tell you to buy. Do you have a pen and some paper?"

"Uh-huh."

"Right. Go to Second Thoughts near Central Park West. Once you are there, ask for Suede. When you see Suede, do not be put off by the fact that he refers to himself in third person, no matter how annoying it gets, do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal."

"Ask Suede for the following things: 4 skirts in black, gray, navy, and off-white. 4 blazers in black, either gray or chocolate brown, off-white and a tweed of your choice. Two of the suits need to be winter-weight and two need to be summer-weight. 4 blouses and/or sweaters in the colors of your choice, although I would recommend at least one plain white shirt. Please remember to coordinate. 4 pairs of shoes with medium heels: two in black, one in brown, one in navy, and one in a metallic that goes _with your skin_—make sure that it does, Six".

"Goes with my skin", I mumbled, jotting busily. "What else?"

"Do you have an LBD?"

"A what?" for a minute, I thought he was talking about a car.

Nigel sighed again. "A Little Black Dress. Do you have one?"

"Oh. Yeah, but it's an old one from Ann Taylor."

"Ask Suede for an LBD. And a clutch bag, if you don't already have one. Match it to the metallic shoes. The accessories are up to you—use good judgment. Theo likes his assistants to be stylish, but NOT to out-style _him._ He wears Armani, mostly. You will want a good knockoff of either that or Chanel. Tell Suede I sent you and you can trust his opinion."

"Thanks, Nigel! You're an angel! How much is all of this going to cost?"

"With luck, under a thousand."

I gulped. I was hoping for under five hundred!

"It will be _worth_ it, Six. Suede will show you the kinds of things you can wear forever. When you're on a budget, classic is definitely the way to go."

Nigel turned out to be right, of course. (That's what drives me crazy about him.) Second Thoughts was a resale shop that featured secondhand designer clothes, shoes, and accessories, and Suede was a wonderfully colorful guy who probably should have been put on Ritalin long ago. "HELLO, DAHLING!" he boomed when I came into the shop. "AND WHAT LOVELY LITTLE THINGS CAN SUEDE SHOW YOU TODAY?"

"Hi" I said. Suede was well over six feet tall and thin as a wire. He wore purple eye shadow and his hair was jet black and styled in kind of a retro-80's fall over one eye, but his suit was a Brooks Brothers. And his voice was surprisingly deep, like Alan Rickman's. "I'm Andy Sachs. Nigel Kipling sent me."

"ANDREA, OF _COURSE_! SUEDE IS ABSO-_LUTE_-LY DE-_LIGHT_-ED TO MEET YOU! AND HOW IS DEAR NIGEL?"

"He's fine."

"LOVELY! OOHH, THAT LITTLE MAN MUST HAVE _SOMETHING_…HE MANAGED TO BAG JAMES HOLT'S FINE ASS, AFTER ALL! NOW, DID YOU BRING THE LIST?"

Mutely, I handed over my slip of paper. Suede took it in a long, delicate hand whose nails were painted a soft lavender shade. "UH-HUH. YOU NEED SOME POWER SUITS. SUEDE'S _SPECIALTY_ IS GOOD POWER SUITS. WAIT RIGHT THERE, LOVE!"

Suede brought out the suits that Nigel had specified, plus a selection of blouses, sweaters, shoes, purses, and even earrings and necklaces. I had to admit, he knew what he was doing. All of them fitted me perfectly. I chose a white shirt, a cranberry silk tank top, a black tank, and a shirt that was sort of a gold-beige and lacy. I figured those four, plus a few bystanders from my own closet, would at least get me through the winter. I chose the shoes as Nigel had specified, but declined the accessories. Suede pouted. "HONEY, SUEDE CHOSE THESE FOR YOU _ESPECIALLY_. THEY ARE SOME OF SUEDE'S ALL-TIME FAVORITE PIECES, AND THEY ARE COSTUME ANYWAY, SO WHY NOT GIVE THEM A LITTLE LOOK-SEE?"

"Because I'm on a budget", I explained. "I have to be as careful as I can right now, and even though these beautiful suits are secondhand, I have to keep it under a thousand dollars, and I would _prefer_ to keep it under five hundred."

"AHHHH. SUEDE SYPATHIZES WITH YOU. IT'S WORSE THAN PASSING A BAKERY WHEN YOU'RE ON A DIET! WELL, SUEDE WILL GIVE IN ON THE ACCESSORIES AS LONG AS YOU PROMISE _NOT_ TO GET THEM AT SOME GODFORSAKEN PLACE LIKE TARGET."

"Andrea promises."

Suede smiled and fluttered his purple eyelashes before ringing up my purchases. To my amazement, the total came to 495.76. "Are you sure that's right?" I asked doubtfully. "One of the shirts was Versace."

"DON'T WORRY YOUR PRETTY LITTLE HEAD ABOUT IT, LOVE. SUEDE KNOWS _EVERY_ PIECE OF MERCHANDISE IN THIS SHOP. THE SHOES WERE _NOT_ JIMMY'S OR MANOLO'S--MERELY CLEVER FAKES. A TEENSY PLUG FROM DARLING MIRANDA WOULDN'T GO AMISS, HOWEVER."

I sighed. I had a feeling there would be a catch. Well, all I could do was ask Nigel. Suede smiled and gave me a wink. "UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN, LOVE! DO GIVE NIGEL MY BEST."

"I'll do it. Thanks so much."

I had reason to _really_ bless Nigel the first day I met Theo Marsden. His senior assistant, Shay, met me in the lobby and guided me upstairs, chattering a mile a minute about Theo and food and cooking and about how I was just as Nigel had described me and was poor Nigel as skinny as ever? Shay was afraid he was wearing himself down to a _nub,_ working for a top like Miranda Priestly. (I made a mental note to ask him what he meant by a "top"). He smiled a lot, making dimples appear in his chubby cheeks. He was about Nigel's height and had the same receding hairline, but the resemblance vanished after that. Shay was blond and blue-eyed, with a sweet smile and a teddy-bear build. In fact, I thought he looked a lot like Jamie O'Neal. There was something about him that made me want to give him a big hug.

"Theo's _dying_ to meet you.

Shay led me to a door and knocked. A smooth voice with a British accent told us to come in.

"Mr. Marsden?" I asked, and a thin man with salt-and-pepper hair rose from behind a massive desk and advanced to meet me. Up close, he was even shorter than Irv Ravitz. "Ah. Andrea Sachs, I presume?"

"That's right."

He shook my hand, nearly crunching my fingers off in the process. "Excellent. Shay, show her around and get her settled in. Start with my coffee. Andrea, pay close attention to _everything_ Shay tells you about my coffee. After today, you'll be making it."

"Okay."

Theo Marsden's eyes narrowed slightly. "Don't think it will be easy. I refuse to sully my palate with instant coffee, or that liquid offal they serve at Starbucks. You will grind the beans, brew them, flavor them, and pour them. The coffee must be piping hot when it gets to me. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir", I said. I was starting to experience a sense of _déjà vu_.

"Do not _ever _try to slip me instant coffee, even if you only have five minutes to prepare it. I shall know at once, and I shall be _very _displeased if you do."

"Yes, sir" I repeated, sympathizing with the luckless soul who had undoubtedly tried it already.

"You will be in charge of my errands, and after Shay leaves, of my entire schedule. Miranda tells me you are very dependable. I fully expect you to live up to her recommendation and not to humiliate her by falling short."

_Ah_, I thought, as I nodded and said "Yes, sir" again. _Here we go. Miranda's revenge begins._

"Very well. Do you know _anything_ about fine food at all?"

"I only know what my last boyfriend taught me" I said. "He was a chef."

"Do you know the difference between a bouillabaisse and a vichyssoise?"

"Yes. A bouillabaisse is made with fish—traditionally three kinds of fish—and vichyssoise is made with potatoes, leeks, and chicken. One is a stew and the other is a soup, served cold. One comes from Marseilles and the other was actually invented by a French chef in America."

"Correct. How about a Cabernet and a Dubonnet?"

"Cabernet is a wine. Dubonnet is a wine-based aperitif"

"And an aperitif is?"

"An alcoholic drink used to stimulate the appetite."

"Right again. Well, perhaps I won't have to train you _entirely _by hand, but you may want to read a few books. I expect you to understand what I say to you at all times."

"Yes, sir."

"And do you know _how_ to eat?"

I stared at him, confused. How to eat? What the hell did that mean?! I'd known how to eat since I was three!

"I take it from your vacuous stare that you have no idea what I'm talking about. All right. Shay, get her settled in _before_ my lunch. Miranda told me you have a tendency towards weight gain. How much is your weight now?"

I decided to murder Miranda as soon as I could figure out a way to do it without getting caught. I hate scales, so I have no idea of my precise poundage, but I sure as _hell_ didn't appreciate this guy looking at me like I was the Michelin tire man. "I'm a size four", I said as evenly as I could.

"I'm not interested in your dress size…clothing size depends on the makers—it's utterly random. What is your _weight_?"

"Last time I checked it was 113…sir." Somehow, I was unable to stop myself from grinding my teeth.

"Good. Part of your job will be to ensure it stays in that range. I despise fat people, and a fat _woman _is especially disgusting. If you start blowing up, you are to go on a diet _immediately._ My task will be to teach you how to eat so that doesn't have to happen."

_WTF?!_ I wasn't a #&#!! _HIPPOPATMUS_. Shay cleared his throat carefully as Theo raked him over with a familiar icy gaze. I guessed that Nigel was right about Theo being Miranda in a gay man's body, but even _she_ hadn't been quite as bluntly vicious as this guy. I was glad he had prepared me. I wondered about poor Shay, who was definitely on the chubby side, but his gaze was calm.

Theo Marsden sat back and steepled his fingers under his chin and surveyed me from head to foot, bringing on another wave of déjà vu. Finally, he nodded. "I believe that's all for now. Ask Shay any questions you might have. Did you bring samples of your writing?"

"Right here. " I handed him a few of my old college articles and some pieces I had written for the _Mirror._ He paged through them and nodded. "Right. Get on with it, then."

I didn't realize I was holding my breath until we were out of the office. "Sorry about that" Shay said apologetically. "Theo can be just a _teensy_ bit overpowering when you first meet him. Don't let him give you an eating disorder, okay?" He looked at me anxiously and I shook my head. "Don't worry. If anything, I'll stuff myself just to get even with him."

Shay laughed. "C'mon. Coffee first. He really does drink the best and we get to have as much of it as we want…it's the best of all our perks."

Shay was right. Theo's favorite coffee was this stuff from Kenya that had the richest aroma I had ever smelled. "Okay", Shay said briskly. "First of all, make sure everything is spotless. We don't use mugs here, and nothing is ickier than dirty china." He knelt down in front of a bottom cupboard in the kitchen area (if such a dry word as "kitchen area" could be used to describe a room that looked like something out of _Martha Stewart Living_) and pulled out elegant, blue-rimmed cups, saucers, and a coffee pot. "These I just washed, so they should be fine. All washing has to be done by hand, using _filtered_ water, okay? Absolutely no tap water allowed."

"Got it."

"All right, first, we grind the beans. We use a French press here—that's the best kind. I have some already ground in here…" he opened a thick white china canister and I smelled the incredible scent.

"Theo takes his with one-_half _of a raw sugar packet. No cream. I like two sugars _with_ cream. How do you like yours?"

"A little cream and sugar, but not a lot. And a shot of vanilla if we have that."

"Of course" Shay opened another cupboard. "A whole range of options!"

He was right. On the first shelf alone I saw vanilla, French vanilla, hazelnut, chocolate, chocolate raspberry, white chocolate, white chocolate raspberry, caramel, and Irish cream. There were more syrups higher up: mandarin orange (orange coffee?), mint, amaretto, cinnamon. It was like a whole Starbucks in one place!

"Okay, first we boil the water" Shaw said as he emptied two bottles of water into a perfectly ordinary kettle and set it on the stove. (Yes, there was a _stove._) "This is the longest part, if course, so in the future, you want to use your time to grind the beans and set the tray up. French-press coffee needs to be coarsely ground, because the filter is made of wire mesh and you don't want any of the grounds to get stuck in it. You want uniform, large grounds. Trays are down here…" Shay pointed to the bottom cupboard. "…Theo likes the blue set best, but there's also one in plain white you can use. You will need to pre-heat the pot and cups. You do that by filling them with more hot water, but it doesn't need to be boiling, so we heat the bottled water in the microwave." He filled a large plastic pitcher with more bottled water (two more…I hoped they recycled around here, and set it to heat. The kettle let out an earsplitting whistle, and Shay trotted to the stove and took it off the burner. "Okay. Now I need you to put in the ground coffee. Unscrew the top lid and take out the plunger thingy. Do you see the filter?"

"Yeah."

"_Yes_, not 'yeah'. Never 'yeah' around Theo. Just a tip." Shay smiled wryly.

"Got it."

"Spoon in six tablespoons of the coffee. This is a 24-ounce press and Theo likes his coffee on the strong side. You want 2 tablespoons for every eight ounces of water. The measuring spoons are in this drawer" he pulled it out. "And they are washed every single time we use them."

"Two tablespoons per eight ounces" I repeated as I got out the spoons and carefully measured the desired amount of coffee into the press. "Okay. Now what?"

"Now we pour the boiling water over the grounds. Don't worry if some of it floats, because we're going to stir it before we put the plunger and filter back in. Before we do that, though, get the water out of the microwave. Fill each cup almost to the top and set the saucer on top of it. Fill the coffee pot almost to the top and put the lid on it. That way, the pot and cups will warm as we finish the coffee."

I did was directed and watched as Theo carefully poured the boiling water into the press. Opening another drawer, he took out a long wooden stirrer and stirred the coffee before carefully setting the plunger apparatus back into the press. "Always use a wooden stirrer or a plastic spoon. Metal ones can chip the press. Now come over here. Do you see how far the liquid is from the top?"

"Yeah—_yes_" I corrected myself.

"Make sure the press isn't any fuller than this, otherwise the coffee will shoot out when you press the plunger down and you can scald yourself. Don't press the plunger down right away, either. You want to let the coffee sit for about two minutes. This is when you get out the sugar and put it in the sugar caddy."

I opened yet another cupboard and pulled out a box of raw sugar packets. Everything was coordinated: the coffee pot, the cups and saucers, the little thing that held the sugar packets, the tray. I realized slowly that although it wasn't silver, I was in the presence of my first real "coffee service".

"Right. Now for the big moment!" Shay grinned and emptied the water out of the cups and ceramic coffee pot. Carefully, he held two of the cups under the press and pushed the plunger down. A fabulously, almost _obscenely_ rich aroma filled my nose. Shay noticed my expression and grinned. He emptied the rest of the press into the coffee pot and nodded. "Take this in to Theo. He will occasionally ask you to just bring him the cup, but he likes the full service in the mornings. I'll fix your cup, and then when you get back we'll wash up and you can tell me about yourself."

I carefully carried the tray to Theo Marsden's office. He looked up when I entered and inclined his head. I carefully set the tray down and waited to see if he would drink it in front of me. He put in one half-packet of the sugar and stirred it with a small spoon before he looked up. "May I _help_ you, Ms. Sachs?" he inquired sarcastically.

"No, sir. Sorry!" I squeaked before I got out of there.

When I returned to the kitchen, Shay had my cup waiting on the counter. He smiled and nodded when I picked it up and took a sip.

It was, bar none, the Best. Coffee. I. Ever. Had.

"Awesome, huh?" Shay laughed and shook his head. "When I first drank this kind of coffee I knew I'd never drink instant again."

He waved me over to the sink and handed me a dish towel. I carefully dried the parts of the press that Shay had washed in warm, soapy water. "So" he said. "Tell me about yourself."

"What do you want to know? I figured Nigel would have told you why I'm here."

"He said you work for Elias-Clark and they wanted you here."

I shrugged. "That's pretty much it. I used to work for the _New York Mirror_ until they were bought out. Then I was told I would be coming here. I'm a writer, and I always wanted to work for the _New Yorker_."

Shay nodded. "If you're good, you can go a long way. Theo respects good writing and he can introduce you to all the right people. Did they let you do any writing at _Runway_? Nigel said you used to be Miranda Priestley's assistant. Your poor child" he shook his head and rolled his eyes extravagantly. "From the way I hear Nigel talk, she's an absolute _demon_."

I paused. Shay seemed sweet, but I didn't know if it was wise to gossip about Miranda, even to someone nice. I wanted to have as little contact with her as possible, and gossiping about her at least brought her back into my _mind._ "No", I said. "Miranda didn't involve her assistants much with the writing aspect…we mostly helped her with her personal errands and sometimes with the fashion side of things."

"Ah fashion. I never did see the point of all that hype about _clothes_. Nigel and I used to have some _vicious_ arguments about it. But then, I'm the type who wears jeans and T-shirts every day when I can get away with it. "

That made me laugh. "Me, too. The only reason I look as good as I do now is that I talked Nigel into completely making me over while I was at _Runway_. The mind-set there is so strong that everybody morphs after a while—if you're not well-dressed, you _must _be stupid. How about you?" I asked, hoping to forestall any further questions. "How did you come to work for Theo?"

"Well, you know, Nigel is a couple of years older than me. We both grew up a few blocks from each other in a little town in Rhode Island called Portsmouth. Our fathers were blue-collar, football-loving, beer-swilling, he-man heterosexuals. Nigel had six brothers and I had four, and our fathers thought that was a credit to their testosterone. Nearly all of our brothers turned out like our fathers, except for one who went to Stanford and is now working for Microsoft and another who's an anime freak who spends his time attending conventions and speaks more Japanese than English. And Nigel and me. I tell you, Andy, I would never have _survived _childhood without Nigel. Both of us knew we were different from a young age, and we both knew what would happen if our fathers ever found out. Nigel's mom had to go to the hospital frequently due to Uncle Nick's tender ministrations, and since my own mother died when I was two, I had to watch a whole string of girls parade in and out of our house, most of them leaving when they'd received one bruise too many. Shayna stayed the longest. She wasn't real bright, but she was really sweet and she loved kids. She was the one who got me interested in cooking, and I think that's why she lasted so long—my dad loved his food, just like me." Shay patted his tummy and continued. "Of course, he wasn't thrilled by any son of his being a chef, but I managed to fly low by working in restaurants all through high school. Once I graduated, I got out immediately and joined Nigel up here. He met Theo when he worked at _New York_, and he introduced me. I was going to one of those franchise cooking schools until I came here. Nigel told me if I could survive for two years as Theo's assistant, he could get me into someplace really top-notch. It was _brutal_, but I made it, and now I'm off to the _Institute_!" He caroled joyfully. "I can't wait!"

"It sounds really good" I said wistfully. Nate would like this guy. I felt the usual little ache of regret that I felt when I thought of Nate, but I pushed it away. It was for the best.

The first event Theo brought Andrea to so Miranda could gauge her "progress" was a luncheon held for several fashion greats at a hot new restaurant called Black. Anna Wintour was there with Emily right behind her, already sporting a similar pair of huge tinted glasses. The girl was a sponge…she'd apparently emulate anyone she stood too close to. But at least she'd had the sense _not _to sport dark Wayfarers. Anna had very little of a sense of humor about her own signature look.

Theo arrived and was immediately guided to Miranda's table. Andrea walked a few paces behind him, wearing a classic Chanel suit with a dark red blouse. A few strands of irregular silver beads hung around her neck and her shoes were Prada knockoffs. Very nice, actually, considering the whole lot of it was probably secondhand. Nigel had requested space in the advertising section for a store called "Second Thoughts" that dealt in such items, and Andrea could never had managed such a look on her own.

"Miranda, darling." Theo air-kissed both her cheeks before he sat down. "How was Milan?"

"Endless, as usual. Have you been to this place before?"

"No, today is their first test on the Marsden palate. Apparently they specialize in Mediterranean and British. An odd mixture. I just _had _to experience it!"

"Well, I can promise you a treat. Nan Cartwright is a personal friend of mine." Miranda observed Andrea out of the corner of her eye. The girl had taken out a leather-bound notepad and was already jotting on it. She had not spoken. "Hello, _Ahn-dre-ah_." Miranda said pointedly.

Andrea looked up, her expression guarded. "Hello, Miranda."

"How is she getting on?" Miranda asked Theo, knowing Andrea would hate being discussed as if she weren't present. Theo twinkled wickedly at her before saying loudly, "She's learning, little by little. Hasn't ruined my coffee more than once, and has finally figured out what "fusion" means."

"Wonderful. And Ahn-dre-ah, how do you like working for Theo?"

Andrea coughed; Miranda would have giggled at her extremely uncomfortable expression had she been the giggling type. She was glad she had left on her own sunglasses for this meeting. "It's been…a real learning experience" she said diplomatically.

"Ah well, you thrive on those, don't you?"

"I try to" Andrea said in dry tone that Miranda couldn't help but smile a little at.

"Have you written anything yet?"

"No, not yet"

"Today will be both the palate and the acid test" Theo said indulgently. Turning to Andrea, he said, "I will, of course, be ordering the entire meal for us both. You will taste everything on your plate, and you will _not_ question any of my choices. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Mr. Marsden."

"She needs practice" Theo confided in a low voice, as if the girl wasn't sitting right there at the table. "I took her to Blue Jansen's and she practically ate with two forks! But we are learning, aren't we? What is our rule, Ms. Sachs?"

"Two and five."

"Very good" Theo nodded approvingly. "We only take _two _bites of each dish, and we identify up to _five_ flavors before forming our decisions, and the result is, Ms. Sachs has already learned that Benihana is NOT real Japanese. You never knew _that _before, remember, Ms. Sachs?"

"Yes, sir." Andrea said tightly. Miranda noted that the tips of the girl's ears had begun to redden. It really was rather adorable.

"When we were at Sakura, she wanted to take these GIANT chopstick loads and then she tried to pass me something WITH the chopsticks! I told her, "My dear, don't _ever _do that again. Passing from chopstick to chopstick is only done at _funerals_. So embarrassing. But then, _we_ must make allowances, mustn't we?" Andrea sputtered indignantly and tried to cover it by faking a complete coughing fit. Miranda's lips curved into a smirk. "You are very lucky, Ahn-dre-ah. It seems Theo has been most patient with you. I hope you're grateful. And you've lost a little weight! That's a relief. You were starting to look a bit bloated. I was afraid you were getting back into bad habits."

"I've had her reading _French Women Don't Get Fat_ and drinking plenty of water" Theo said confidentially. Andrea cleared her throat. "I believe I'll go to the ladies' room" she said in frigid tones. "If you will both excuse me…"

Theo and Miranda managed to stay quiet until the girl was well out of earshot, and then neither one could keep a straight face. Miranda's laughter bubbled uncontrollably from her throat and if there was such a thing as a baritone cackle, that was definitely the sound Theo was emitting. "God, Theo, you really _are _a bitch."

"You said you wanted me to work with her" Theo reminded Miranda. "And you were right, by the way…she really is the best. And she _knows_ it after her time with you—that's why this has been so much fun. I _never _tolerate backtalk from my assistants, so she can't say anything, but I must admit, I don't know how much longer I can keep it up. It's so hilarious I'm bound to laugh and give myself away someday."

"My sympathies. I was close, several times, when she worked for me. I'll never forget her coming up to me in the middle of Ritz and babbling a mile a minute about Jacqueline. She thought I didn't know…it never crossed her dear little mind that someone like me, who makes it their business to be on top of every detail, would of course be aware of _any _threat to my position."

"Quite a bit of loyalty, though" Theo observed. "Rather sweet, when you think about it."

His eyes were too sharp for Miranda's liking. She gave an elaborate shrug. "I think she just wanted to be promoted. It was within her reach, after all. I already was having thoughts of moving her into Emily's position, and she had shown that she was willing to do what it took to get on. When she realized I already knew, she probably thought her efforts were for nothing." There was no way in hell Miranda would ever tell Theo about the last conversation she'd had with Andrea, in the car, right before she left. _That_ was still painful to think about. The look on Andrea's face—the way she had stared at Miranda as if Miranda was a complete stranger—would be burned into the editor's memory for a long time.

"Then why didn't she stay?" Theo asked gently.

Miranda rolled her eyes. "She wanted to go off and be a 'serious' journalist and save the world by writing her earnest little articles. She was one of those insufferably smug intellectuals who look on the fashion industry as an occupation for the brainless and shallow. For all I know, she still thinks that way, although her wardrobe has improved considerably and I'm pleased to see it hasn't degenerated back into a mass of poly-blend and rayon acetate since she's been gone."

"Yes, quite nice. She told Shay most of it was secondhand, but at least you taught her what to look for."

Andrea returned then, her cheeks still a bit pink, and sat down. The waiter arrived and took their orders. Miranda ordered her usual salad. Theo chose several dishes for Andrea and himself, and chatted to Miranda about Milanese cuisine while they waited for their food. Andrea remained utterly silent, occasionally writing on her notepad. When the first course arrived, however, she put it away and waited as Theo arranged soup and salad plates in front of them both. "Now, Ms. Sachs, what is this?"

Andrea took a forkful of salad and chewed slowly. "Romaine lettuce, prosciutto, walnuts, and something else."

"Figs, my dear. What are the flavors?"

"Fruity…nutty…crisp. A bit peppery in the sauce."

Theo took a bite. "Ah. Do you taste the slight bitterness?"

"Yes."

"Can you identify it?"

"Endive?"

"Very good. Now the soup. What do you taste?"

"Some kind of shellfish."

"Oysters, to be precise. What else?"

Andrea took a second spoonful and closed her eyes. "Something a bit pickle-y…maybe capers? Or dill. A bit of lemon. And some bacon, of course." Absently, Andrea reached for a third spoonful, only to give a little yelp as Theo smacked the back of her hand lightly with his spoon. "_NO_."

Andreas face flamed, making a lovely contrast to her dark eyes and hair. "Sorry", she muttered.

"Must save some room for _next-ies_", Theo chided her, making Miranda smile again. The whole meal continued the same way, with Theo quizzing Andrea on the flavors and textures of the food. After he'd allowed her two bites of some truly sinful tiramisu, Theo excused himself for a moment, leaving Miranda and Andrea alone. Miranda did not speak, training her eyes on the models that had begun to emerge onto the narrow catwalk that ran down the center of the restaurant. Andrea glanced at her, but did not say anything, knowing from experience that to distract Miranda from any fashion show was high on the list of grave sins. She busied herself once again with her notebook, her handwriting flowing evenly across the small pages.

The clothes were mostly average, with one or two being worthy of Miranda's notice. She would ask Nan about them later. Andrea set her pen down with a sigh and finally looked directly at the older woman. "And how are you, Miranda?"

"Quite well, thank you. And you, Ahn dre-ah?"

"I've decided I must be a masochist."

"Oh?" Miranda raised an elegant eyebrow.

"I'm talking to you, after all. After you just spent the past thirty minutes humiliating me."

"Don't be childish Ahn-dre-ah. I have said next to _nothing_ to you."

"You don't have to _say _anything. I'm sure watching me squirm is enough."

"I fail to see how _I'm_ responsible for your employer's behavior."

"He's obviously a good friend of yours" Andrea nonchalantly sipped some water.

"He is. And he's been like that to _everyone_,_ including_ me, for all of his life. So why don't you grow up and stop assuming everything is about you?"

Andrea sighed. "Why did you help me, Miranda?"

"I told you…because I felt like it."

"Why did you feel like it?"

Miranda paused, weighing her words carefully before she spoke. "Why did I fax Dan Hartwell and ensure you got your previous job, Ahn-dre-ah?"

"I never understood that, either."

"I know you didn't. One thing you always failed miserably at was subtlety. You used me. You abandoned me, you disappointed me more than any other assistant I ever had, but you were also the best I ever had. So…" Miranda shrugged again.

Andrea shook her head in disbelief. "_I_ used _you_? How, exactly, do you come to that conclusion?!"

"The same way all my assistants and employees do. I have something you want: fame, talent, and the right connections. People work for me in the hopes that I will grant them access to these things. You wanted to work for the _New Yorker_ when you came to _Runway_, did you not?"

"Yes, but—"

"But _nothing_, Ahn-dre-ah. That is how life works at this level."

"And yet you sent Dan that fax. Despite the fact that I'm this horrible person that _used _you."

Miranda rolled her eyes and prayed for patience. "I never said you were a_ horrible_ person. Really, you _have_ to stop with the melodrama! It's extremely unprofessional. If you just _thought _about it, you would see that no one, _no one_ Ahn-dre-ah, comes into this world without wanting something from someone. Everyone who comes to me, from my assistants, to my editors to the designers to Irv Ravitz wants something that I have. I, in turn, get from them things that _I_ want. That is why it's called _business_, Ahn-dre-ah. I have expectations from my assistants because their _job_ is do to things as I require them. When those expectations are fulfilled, I pay them. When they are not, I pay them. The only difference is in the _type of currency_. Does that help?"

Andrea chewed her lower lip; Miranda wished she wouldn't.

"Not really" the girl said at last. "I already knew that about you. What I don't get is why you would take it upon yourself to look after me when I was no longer a _part_ of your world."

Miranda smiled then. Andrea's tone had softened with her confusion, meaning that she was beginning to back down. "But you will be, Ahn-dre-ah. Paris proved that to me. You have what it takes to succeed, and once you are at the top, you will find that this world is very small. I try not to burn any more bridges than I have to. I advise you to do the same."

Theo returned then. "Sorry I was so long! Did anything catch your eagle eyes, Miranda?"

"Only a few accessories…but there was at least one scarf that will do very well for one of our spring layouts. I'll get the details from Nan. How about you?"

"Umm. Quite good. Ms. Sachs, what is your opinion?"

"Good, but I wasn't exactly blown away."

Theo nodded slowly, considering. "But the ambiance is wonderful."

Andrea looked as if she disagreed, but she remained quiet. "I expect the review on my desk tomorrow, Ms. Sachs. Impress me."

"Yes, Mr. Marsden."

Theo and Andrea left soon after and Miranda took the car back to Elias-Clark. On the way, she cursed herself for allowing the girl to draw her in. If she wanted to keep control of the situation, she couldn't allow that to happen. Miranda Priestly explained herself to _no one_. But those deep, dark eyes had been as hard to ignore as ever. She blew out her breath in exasperation, causing Roy to accelerate sharply into the next lane. Theo had already guessed that Andrea was no ordinary assistant. She would have to be very careful about arranging things so she could see her again.

But she wanted to. Oh yes.

Even the Dragon Lady had her weaknesses.


	7. Chapter 7

After two months at _Vogue_, Emily finally felt as if her life was back on track. Although their needs and personalities had subtle differences, she often thought that Miranda and Anna could switch places without their staff being any the wiser. She laughed about it to Serena over lunch at Black; she had missed her cheerful, easygoing friend, and was glad they had managed to grab some time to be together.

"So how is it across the fence?" Serena asked as they noshed on fruit salad.

"Absolutely the same, except for considerably less personal angst, thank _God_. Anna talks even less than Miranda does—she mostly leaves voice mail. Suits me fine."

"I heard she never goes to sleep."

"She doesn't. Half the time the voice mails come in between one and six in the morning, but whatever. Miranda always did that, too."

"What's up with those huge glasses? I always wanted to know that. Has anyone told you?"

"They're prescription. She can't see, really, and she hates all those flashbulbs going off in her face."

"Really? That might explain a lot." They laughed. _Runway_ staffers traditionally scoffed at anything _Vogue_ was doing, just out of company loyalty.

"You look much better. I'm glad" Serena continued. "I was worried."

"Nothing ruins the complexion faster than total frustration." Emily sighed and rolled her eyes. "I even managed to see the little twit last week without breaking out. Progress indeed."

Serena sighed. She knew Emily's next question would have to do with Miranda and she asked herself for the millionth time why she was sitting here with someone who would never feel the same was as she did. Nobody ever measured up to Miranda Priestley, and Serena didn't believe in deluding herself. On the other hand, some insane part of her couldn't stop looking for her friend's candy-apple hair and green eyes in any crowd. Serena considered herself a sensible person, but love was anything _but_ sensible.

"Miranda was there too, of course. Actually sitting at the same table with her and Theo Marsden. Probably did it on purpose, too. My only hope is that the little cow _is_ as miserable as she looked. She's so bloody _stupid _it drives me bonkers! She didn't even notice that Miranda didn't have Megan or anyone else with her—which she _always_ does when it's business—and she was eating practically everything on the table! Obviously, it never crossed her tiny little mind that _gluttony_ isn't exactly the way to turn Miranda on. What the hell Miranda sees in her I've _never_ understood."

"Well" Serena shrugged. "Andrea likes men, right? Maybe she doesn't _want_ to turn her on."

"That is precisely my point! She had some idiotic boyfriend that she was always worrying about while she was with us—a fact which Miranda consistently chose to overlook. She's fat. She's stupid. She's a traitor, and she's _straight_, for Christ's sake! Whereas _I _was loyal, devoted, disciplined, _much_ thinner, and have been told I do great oral to boot, and does Miranda even once look at me?"

Serena sighed again. She was rapidly becoming bored. "Most people are unlucky enough to fall for someone who is in love with someone else at some point in their lives." Silently, she added, _And I wish my turn was over because_ YOU _are driving _ME _bonkers._

"I don't need platitudes, Serena" Emily glowered and stabbed viciously at a piece of melon.

"No, you need to be with me."

Emily's head snapped up. She stared at her friend, searching for signs of humor, but Serena's sky-blue eyes were perfectly serious. "What?!"

"You heard me."

Emily set her fork back down. "I guess I did."

"_Forget_ Miranda, Emily. She's brilliant, yes, but with relationships, she is…how you say…a train wreck. Three husbands, God only knows how many boyfriends, and not one person has stayed. It's because she doesn't tolerate mere mortals, Em."

"I wish I could" Emily groaned. "My mind tells me I should a million times a day. But the rest of me…"

"Then" Serena took the redhead's pale, perfectly-manicured hand in hers. "It sounds like you need some distraction." She stroked her thumb gently over Emily's knuckles.

Emily's skin tingled and she felt her face grow warm, along with other parts of her body. It looked as if Serena was right. It had been months, after all. Nearly a year. The taller girl lifted Emily's hand to her mouth and nibbled delicately at the flesh of her palm, drawing a mixture of shocked and amused glances from nearby tables. Fire shot up the redhead's arm. She took a sharp breath in, and met Serena's calm, blue gaze. "I think I'd like that", she said.

"Good."

"But Serena?" an anxious frown creased Emily's brow. "What will it do to our relationship? I don't want to lose your friendship if this…shouldn't work out."

"You won't. I can be very stubborn. You will find out how much." Her voice dropped into a lower pitch, "_And_ how much I've wanted this. _And_ how it's been for me to watch you long for someone who wasn't me. _And_ all of the things I thought of to _make_ you change your mind." She leaned closed to whisper this last, her breath soft on Emily's cheek. Emily closed her eyes and shivered. "And on top of everything else", she joked breathlessly, "it burns calories."

Serena laughed, and the rich sound made Emily laugh, too. Suddenly, she felt better than she had in a long time.

It took me a little over a month with Theo Marsden to realize that I was being stalked. At first, I took it for granted that some contact with Miranda was unavoidable; he was one of her oldest friends, after all, and she frequented most of the restaurants that he recommended. In fact, as his assistant, I discovered that he would fax most of his recommendations and reviews to her before they even made it into the magazine. It alarmed me that she would always know where I was, as Theo always took me to these places to "develop my palate". But I had _never_ expected her to always _be_ there when I was, _sans_ assistants, _sans_ Clackers, sans anyone related to _Runway_.

Sometimes she sat at our table and talked to Theo and ignored me. Sometimes she questioned him on my "progress", and Theo—bitch that he was—never failed to amuse her with some stupid mistake I'd made. It was humiliating, and it was also very childish. I decided that my only defense was to cultivate a Zen-like indifference. I took notes, answered questions, and spoke only when I was spoken to, figuring in time that Miranda would get bored and quit following us. Unfortunately, that didn't happen; she seemed to be as indifferent to my presence as I was trying to be to hers. I began to suspect _Theo _of arranging the meetings, just so he could watch both of us. I wouldn't put it past him. I'd seen Miranda pull the same trick with people from rival magazines, just for the joy of watching people squirm. Like the time she hosted a big dinner at the Met and deliberately seated Anna Wintour next to Liz Tilberis. Liz rolled her eyes, nodded to Anna, and talked to the person on her other side. Anna nodded back—barely—and proceeded to stare at Miranda through her huge dark glasses throughout the meal. I had been assigned to take people's coats and show them to their chairs and the air around Anna was about thirty degrees chillier than the rest of the room. If she _hadn't_ been wearing her glasses, Miranda probably would have fallen dead on the spot.

And Theo made no effort to conceal his glee at watching us interact. In fact, there were even a couple of times when Miranda raised her eyebrows at him and looked more than a little irritated when he went on about my short _Runway_ tenure and how _he_ was obviously doing a better job of 'breaking me in'. He seemed to want to get a rise out of _someone_, and didn't care which one of us it was.

Finally, one day he said to me, "Ms. Sachs, I do believe you've attained enough basic competence to go out on your own. Dwight Glendenning has opened a new place near Lincoln Center. I expect your review on my desk first thing tomorrow morning."

"Yes, sir."

You can imagine what I thought when I saw Miranda sitting at a lovely corner table all by herself. She didn't even bother to pretend that the meeting was an accident. "Ahn-dre-ah, come here" she said as the maitre'd guided me past her table. He raised his eyebrows questioningly and I nodded, waving him away.

"Yes, Miranda?" I asked.

"Theo told me that this restaurant was one of his best new finds. Is it?"

"It is a new find. I haven't tasted anything yet, so I don't know about 'best'".

"Are you not _paid_ to know those things?"

"Yes. That's why I'm here." I waited. Her glance was as withering as usual, but for once I didn't give a damn. I was completely pissed off at Theo; I had no doubt that he had arranged this little _tete a` tete_.

She finally gave an irritated sigh. "Sit."

I did.

"You're the most ungrateful child I ever met." Miranda said coolly as she flipped open a menu.

I came very close to swallowing my tongue, I was so furious. I didn't trust myself to say anything for several minutes. Miranda closed the menu and slid it across the table to me. I was glad to hide my face behind it. As Theo had taught me, I chose five different dishes to try: two entrees, two appetizers, and a dessert. The waiter who came to take our orders looked at me oddly for a moment, then hopped to it as soon as I showed my business card. When I could trust myself to speak without screaming, I asked Miranda how _she_ would like it if I barged into _her_ life and moved her out of _Runway_. "You can't expect me to be thrilled to see the person who's holding my strings" I said bitterly.

She clicked her tongue. "Why do you persist in willful stupidity, Ahn-dre-ah? You were working for a _nothing_ newspaper, and you managed to suffer a gunshot wound in the bargain. Here, you are being given the opportunity you always wanted and you resent it?"

"Anyone would" I said quietly, "if they knew that someone they _betrayed_ was the reason they had such an opportunity. When do you plan to drop the other shoe, Miranda?"

Miranda was silent a moment. I watched her face, and sure enough, a little smirk curled the edges of her mouth. "I already have, Ahn-dre-ah. You have to think about it all the time, don't you? About how much you owe me. About how much _your family_ owes me. To repay me, you have no choice but to succeed."

"I take it you want money?"

"Hardly. I already have more than you'll earn in your first ten years of work."

"Then?"

Miranda sat forward. "I want you to be who you were born to be. And I want you to know every minute of every day to whom you owe your success."

"_News flash_, Miranda. I don't need _you _to succeed."

"Do you need me as your enemy?" she inquired casually. It chilled me. The waiter arrived and took our drink orders. I ordered a large apple martini.

"The magazine world is an incestuous place" Miranda continued as soon as the waiter was gone. "I believe I've mentioned that before. You _already_ owed me when you left _Runway_. What would have happened if I had told Dan Hartwell about your little escapade in Paris?"

"He would have said he didn't know how I lasted _that _long." I tried to speak evenly, and to my surprise, Miranda actually gave a genuine chuckle. "Well, perhaps. Perhaps your complete irresponsibility would seem understandable to anyone outside Elias Clarke. I am quite aware of my reputation. But had I chosen to tell him of your daily, if not hourly incompetence, he might have thought differently."

"I doubt it" I said, returning her amused gaze with one I hoped was sufficiently steely. "He told me what you said the day I interviewed. You could have knocked me down with a feather. Do you think leaving you in the middle of Fashion Week was a _whim?_ I knew perfectly well what I was doing, _and_ what your reaction would be. I also knew what I was giving up. I left because I didn't want to end up like _you_—an empty, lonely person with lots of money, fabulous clothes, and nothing else. I couldn't believe it when he told me that you said if he _didn't_ hire me, he was an idiot."

Miranda looked down at her wineglass. "I couldn't, either."

"He said I must have done something right."

Miranda was silent. I took it as a good sign that she didn't contradict me right away. "So you want my eternal gratitude?" I asked. "And that translates into what? Political favors by the time I'm editor-in-chief at the _New Yorker_? You'll be long retired to some mansion in Connecticut by then."

"You plan to be editor-in-chief, do you?" her voice was drenched in irony.

"Answer the question, Miranda."

"You'll just have to wait and see."

"You know" I said casually as the waiter brought our food. "I don't think _you_ know what you want. The Miranda Priestly I know _never_ hedges."

"But how well _do_ you know Miranda Priestley?"

"Well enough to know that it must be snowing in hell if she uses _evasion_ when arguing with an underling."

Miranda sighed and took a delicate bite of her salad. "I could _kill_ Theo."

"So could I. And you just proved my point, by the way. Did he send you here?"

"He emailed me and recommended the lunch menu and said he would meet me."

"And then he stood you up. And left you alone with me."

"So it would seem. What on earth are you smiling at, Ahn-dre-ah?"

"I'm thinking of ways to kill him"

Miranda chuckled again. What was wrong with the universe? _Two_ chuckles in one day?! Everything was getting a bit too surreal. To distract myself, I took two bites of each dish. Four were delicious, but the truffled cod had been loaded with enough garlic to kill a vampire. I coughed, swigged more of my drink than I should have, and coughed some more. Miranda raised an eyebrow. "Having problems?"

On impulse, I speared some of the cod and held it out. "Taste for yourself."

I expected her to refuse. Miranda lives primarily on lettuce and bottled water, but to my surprise she took the fork and tasted it. "Rare Atlantic Garlicfish?"

"No. It's truffled cod. Supposedly."

"If there are truffles in it, they're well hidden."

"That's a good quote" I jotted it in my notebook. "Mind if I use it?"

Before she could answer, my cell rang. Theo.

"Yes, Mr. Marsden?"

"Either the food is divine, or it's horrendous. I can't think of anything else that would make you take _forty-five_ minutes for lunch when your allotment is _thirty_, can you?"

"No, sir. I—" To my complete shock, Miranda gestured to me to hand over the phone. I did, not knowing how to refuse without pissing her off.

"Theo, I don't find you amusing at _all_" she said. There was a pause, and then she shook her head. "It is _too_ my business. It is my business when you waste my valuable time to satisfy your sick sense of humor."

"And that's none of _your _business" Miranda went on after another pause. "I'll see you this weekend. Oh, and if you blame Ahn-dre-ah for _any_ of this I'll boot you out of Milan _permanently_. Ciao to you, too, darling. Bye."

Smirking, she handed the phone back to me. "You had better go."

I didn't need to be told twice. Thanking the gods that my business card was enough to get me comped in any restaurant in Greater Manhattan, I raced back to the office. I had a lot to think about, but first I had to deal with Theo.


	8. Chapter 8

"Really, darling, I hardly see what you're so upset about!" Miranda could clearly hear Theo's smug satisfaction through the phone lines. "You wanted to keep an eye on her, correct? I merely provided you with the opportunity to do so."

"_You_ were supposed to be there, too!" Miranda hissed. "I have plenty of excuse for lunching with you. I have _none_ for dining with some _nobody_ ex-assistant of mine."

"Oh come now, Merry. She's hardly a _nobody_. You may as well own up—I know she's special to you."

"Of _course_ she is. She's the biggest disappointment of my entire career, _and_ someone who betrayed me. I don't need to add more grist to gossip tabloids by lunching alone with her!"

"You care very little about the tabloids, darling. And Andrea is one of _my_ people. Anyone with half a mind will assume I've _sent_ her to conduct some business with you…it's even _true_, wouldn't you say?"

"Have I ever told you how much I hate you, Theo?"

Theo laughed. "Too many times to count. And _don't_ sulk. You'll thank me one day."

Miranda supposed she shouldn't be too surprised—Theo was, after all, one of her oldest friends. He knew her too well _not _to figure out that her Satan-spawned ex-assistant was _haunting_ her more than she had any right to. She couldn't understand it; she should be _enjoying_ her revenge. Instead, Andrea had somehow turned the tables.

_News flash, Miranda. I don't need_ you _to succeed._ Those once wide, hopeful eyes had been expressionless and cold. She wasn't intimidated anymore. In fact, she had actually upped the ante. Now Miranda would have to either destroy her outright or—

"Miranda" Theo's voice was gentler now. "She's actually a rather marvelous girl, you know. Intelligent, well read, an excellent writer, aware of what's going on in the world, savvy, _resourceful_…"

"Your point?"

"She's your _equal_, Miranda."

Miranda stared into the darkness of her study, her hand gripping the phone so tightly that she felt her fingers beginning to cramp.

"Hello? Hellloooo? Are you still there, Merry?"

"Yes. You're insane." Miranda shook her head to clear it. "She's too _young_ to be my equal."

"Oh please. You're going to make her _age_ your excuse?! Pitiful." Theo snorted derisively. "The girl is _legally _an adult, after all. And I have_ never_ seen you so focused on another person in all the years I've known you. The air between you is so thick you can cut it, grind it, and puree it."

So much for hoping he hadn't noticed. Miranda groaned and raked a hand through her hair.

"And before you make your next objection" Theo went on, shifting back into his don't-argue-with-me tone, "Let me remind you that none of the men you married ever looked at you the way she does, _either_. I've had time enough to observe you both most carefully, and all I can say is this: _please _take her tobed soon before the tension kills us all."

Miranda rolled her eyes, but still felt her face turning bright red. "What a tactful suggestion."

"I thought it was, too."

"Ms. Sachs? In here a moment, if you please."

I cursed under my breath as I struggled with the press. Like Miranda, Theo expected his assistants to drop everything and come running when he called. It would ruin the first batch of coffee to leave it, and I would have to start all over again. The young man I'd hired to replace Shay (who emailed every day and was rapidly turning into one of my best friends) took the plunger from me. "I'll finish this batch. I have a press just like this at home."

"Yes, Mr. Marsden?" I asked.

"I'm sending you on a field trip" Theo steepled his fingers under his chin, a la Mr. Burns from _The Simpsons_. I half-expected him to say _"Eeeexcelllllent"._

"All right", (Theo hated the word 'okay' almost as much as he hated the word 'yeah'.) "Where am I going, sir?"

"Connecticut. There is a lovely old inn there that has just recently hired Gerard Montreaux as their head chef. I trust you know who _he_ is?"

I nodded. "Four Michelin stars. Used to be the head chef at Le Puits D'Argent until Blackstone House lured him away with much more money in the hopes he'd turn their kitchen around."

"Correct. And let's _please_ remember to use _pronouns._ You are not text messaging anyone right now. You will be spending next weekend there. I want a full article: the food, the ambience, the service…_everything_. Do you think you can handle that?"

"Yes, sir. Absolutely." I tired to hide my joy. The Blackstone! Nate used to talk wistfully about going there. It was supposed to be one of the most romantic places in Connecticut and the height of good taste at the same time. It kind of sucked that I would be alone, but it was still an opportunity I wouldn't have wanted to miss.

"Good. You will be in room 207. It's my usual room. Just show them your card when you arrive.

"Yes, sir!" Theo raised his eyebrows and I tried to keep the bubble of joy in my stomach from rising to my face and covering it with an idiotic grin.

That night, I called Shay, who was overjoyed for me and said to be sure and tell him all about it. He _loved_ the Culinary Institute and was seriously considering auditioning for a spot on _Hell's Kitchen_. I stopped in at Second Thoughts for some slacks and new tops. Suede actually clapped his hands when he heard where I was going and let me have a wonderful leather jacket at a third of the price. I was flying high—a beautiful place, delicious food, a paid-for room, and a chance to write! It sounded like Andy-heaven. As much as I hated to admit it, working at _Runway_ had spoiled me to a certain extent. Working for with Miranda had exposed me to some of the finest hotels in the world, whether I actually stayed in them or not, and I could never stay at a Holiday Inn after that without feeling a definite nostalgia.

I rented a car from Theo's service to drive up there. The countryside was beautiful; it was early fall and the leaves had already started to change. When I arrived at the hotel, I parked the car myself and grabbed my bags from the trunk. I tend to avoid valet parking out of long habit—when you're on a budget, it's just not something you use all that much.

The Blackstone was unbelievable: a huge stone building set into a grove of trees and approached by a mile-long driveway, it looked like an English country estate more than anything else. The lobby was paneled with red-gold wood and floored with darker wood. Velvet drapes hung and the windows and one end of the room was dominated by a giant stone fireplace.

"Good afternoon. Welcome to the Blackstone Inn!" chirped a green-eyed blonde behind the front desk. "Do you have a reservation?"

"Marsden, 207" I handed her Theo's business card. She tapped the name into her computer and beamed. "Ah yes. Ms. Sachs. James?" She waved one of the bellhops over. "This is Ms. Sachs, Theo Marsden's personal assistant. Will you show her to Room 207 please?"

"That's okay!" I protested. "Just tell me where it is. I only have two bags."

"It's all right" James picked up the bags and smiled. "Mr. Marsden is a frequent guest. If you don't mind my asking, will he be arriving later and will he need anything when he does?"

"Mr. Marsden is unable to make this trip himself" I answered smoothly, my game face instantly on. (Working for Miranda had also taught me to be wary of questions like that. The celebrity-tabloid press can be very sneaky.).

"Oh" he looked disappointed, which puzzled me until I took a closer look at him: wavy blond hair, large blue eyes with long eyelashes, pouty lips, nice butt filling out his uniform pants. It looked liked Theo liked chicken for other things than dinner.

Room 207 was lovely. Not so opulent it was intimidating, but rich and lovely all the same. The walls were covered with floral paper. The bed was a four-poster with a canopy, and the accents were in deep red. Book cases lined the walls of the sitting room, it had its own fireplace, and there was a heavy walnut desk with a high-speed Internet connection. I couldn't stop myself from smiling. James smiled too. "It is great, isn't it? Where do you want these?"

"The small one can go on the desk…it's my laptop. The other one on the bed, I guess" I began rummaging in my purse for his tip, praying there was an ATM on the premises. It was stupid of me to forget that any hotel stay—if you want to do it right—includes tips for the bellhops and the maids as well as the waiters in the restaurant. I held out a ten and James smiled as he pocketed it. "Thanks so much. If you need anything, Ms Sachs, anything at all, just call Amber at the front desk. She knows where to find me."

"Thanks. When is dinner, by the way?"

"Seven o' clock in the main dining room. Enjoy your stay."

Seven o' clock left me with a couple hours to unpack, bathe, change, and email the office to let Theo know I had arrived safely. I had just gotten out of the shower and had set up the laptop and logged on when there was a commotion in the hall.

"This is unacceptable!" hissed an all-too-familiar voice. "I have stayed in 207 ever since I first came here in 1986…I do not _care_ what Mr. Marsden said…well, you will just have to move her _out_, won't you? That's all."

"Ms. Priestley, believe me, we are sorry, but Mr. Marsden booked the room in advance. I assumed you knew that—that you were meeting him here for business" said an apologetic male voice. The door opened and there was Miranda in the doorway, along with a very flustered Amber, James, pushing a loaded brass luggage cart, and someone who I assumed was the hotel manager.

"Ahn-dre-ah, you are to vacate this room immediately." Miranda said imperiously, sweeping in with James struggling to push the cart in behind her. "There has obviously been some mistake about your reservation."

I raised my eyebrows and looked at the manager. Since I had always been cursed by the gods to run into Miranda at the most inopportune of moments, I was still in my very cozy, very soft, and very damp hotel bathrobe. I had no makeup on and my hair was still wet, and I was barefoot. Marvelous. Obviously, this was some sort of karmic payback for my having seen Miranda in a similar state that night in Paris a year ago. With all the dignity I could muster, I replied, "I am very sorry, Miranda. Mr. Marsden gave me to understand that this was his personal room…the one he always reserves when he stays here."

"It is, and he told me expressly that _I _could use it this weekend. You have clearly misunderstood him. Please pack your things and leave. I am sure Mr…." she squinted at the manager's name tag. "Farnham will be delighted to make other accommodations for you."

"Will you excuse us, please?" I asked the manager and company pleasantly. Miranda glanced at them and pursed her lips, but she nodded. Looking relieved, the whole lot backed out of the room.

"That was completely uncalled for." Andrea said quietly. Her dark eyes glittered with anger. "I no longer work for you. You no longer have the right to speak to me like that, _especially_ in front of other people."

"How long do you think you'd be working for Theo if I chose to tell him how _you've _spoken to _me_?" Miranda asked in tones equally frigid. She was furious, absolutely _furious _at herself for not anticipating this. When she had mentioned that she was thinking of spending a weekend in the country to rest, Theo had immediately offered his usual room to her. He had also mentioned casually that Gerard Montreaux had taken over as head chef at the hotel. She had assumed—idiotically—that he would be there and then leave again for the city, as he had done in the past. She should have known that when she had failed to make any sort of personal contact with Andrea after their last phone conversation that he would try something else. Once Theo had an idea, he never let go of it.

And none of it was Andrea's fault, of course. The girl was remarkably dense about the subtle manipulations that went on in the world of people like Theo Marsden and Miranda Priestley.

But _nobody_ talked back to Miranda. Ever.

"I don't know. He doesn't explain himself to me any more than you did. However, I do believe this was his idea to begin with, so he may _want_ me to stay." Andrea held her ground, refusing to flinch. "Perhaps you can tell me what game you two are playing."

"_I'm_ not doing anything" Miranda snapped. "Believe me, I don't like this any more than you do."

"So you treated me like shit in front of three total strangers just to relieve your feelings?"

"Be careful, Andrea" Miranda said in a low, warning voice, but Andrea ignored her.

"Everywhere I go, there you are" she shook her head in disbelief. I _know_ Theo's doing it. _You_ know he's doing it, but you choose instead to attack _me_? _You_ put me with him in the first place! If you went to the trouble of placing me with Theo so you could still use me as a whipping girl, I'll turn in my resignation tomorrow. I'll go back to Cincinnati and you can both go to hell. I've had _enough_."

Miranda watched her carefully, weighing, measuring. She was serious. And she was right.

"I'm sorry, Andrea."

Andrea blinked.

"You're right, of course. In the beginning, I did ask Theo to bring you when he met with me so I could gauge your progress, but I never thought he'd keep doing it…" Miranda rubbed her forehead. "Needless to say, it was wrong of me to take my anger out on you. I apologize."

"Accepted" Andrea said evenly. "I'll go have a word with Mr. Farnham."

The young woman left Miranda staring blankly at the place where she had been standing. _What the hell is happening to you?! _part of her mind demanded, horrified. _Miranda Priestley doesn't apologize and Miranda Priestley doesn't explain! Especially to underlings. Nobodies._

_She_ isn't a _nobody! And she_ isn't _an underling!_ Another part of her mind exploded in protest. _She's the best employee you ever had, and she's probably the only person to treat you like a_ real _person in the past twenty years. And how did you feel when you heard she'd been shot?_

Miranda winced, remembering how her insides had frozen and plummeted into her shoes. Until she had pulled herself together for the ride to the hospital, there had been that moment of pure terror, that split-second of merely wanting to get to Andrea and make sure she wasn't dead. However insane the reason might be, Miranda could not imagine the world without Andrea—Andy—Sachs in it. And she didn't want to. She had planned to watch the girl crawl. She had planned to enjoy every minute of it. Instead, she found herself wanting to get behind the walls the girl had thrown up around herself. The way she had stood, despite the ridiculous fluffy bathrobe, with her back straight and her gaze unwavering, was something only Miranda could have taught her. She had—Miranda appreciated the irony—learned her lessons too well from the Dragon Lady.

"Dear God I am in so much trouble" Miranda whispered to herself.


	9. Chapter 9

Mr. Farnham was very relieved when I told him that I would be willing to be moved to another room. He moved me across the hall to Room 208, which was equally lavish and similarly appointed, the only difference being that the accents were dark green instead of red. The only thing that I missed about the other room was the view of the incredible English-style garden out back; 208 overlooked the front portico and driveway instead.

I dashed off a quick email to Theo, choosing NOT to mention that Miranda was in his room, and focused on getting ready for dinner. I decided on my LBD, since it was nice but not actually formal. I took extra care with my hair and makeup. I was determined to get more answers out of Miranda if she showed up in the dining room—such as _why_ her friend should be going to all this extra trouble to throw us together.

Truthfully, despite how bitchy she'd been, I felt a sorry for her. She had actually _apologized _to me, and God knows what that had cost her, and when she did, she looked both tired and sad. Theo was obviously jerking her around, too. Pretty weird behavior in a friend.

I didn't see her when I arrived in the restaurant. I handed Theo's card to the maitre d' and was quickly seated in a prominent banquette. "Will anyone be joining you, Mademoiselle Sachs?" the maitre d' asked.

I hesitated. I really wasn't sure if Miranda would even show up. After the little incident with the room, I wouldn't have been surprised if she had stayed in and ordered room service. I gave the maitre d' a bland smile. "Probably not, but I'd like to have a drink first, anyway."

He left me. I ordered a glass of Merlot from the bar and waited. I had a good view of the door from where I was sitting, so I didn't miss the gasps when Miranda swept in wearing a gorgeous eggplant-colored cocktail dress that bared her smooth shoulders and did something strange to my heartbeat.

"Andy? Is that Andy Sachs?!"

I turned sharply and looked to my right. At the next table was the _last_ person I would have wanted to see, other than Theo himself: Christian Thompson.

"Hello, Christian."

"Bonjour, bonjour!" he grinned devilishly at me. "And may I say you are looking delicious! What are you doing here? Business or pleasure?"

"Business" I said shortly.

"I saw the Dragon Lady earlier as I was coming downstairs. I thought you left _Runway_?"

"I did."

"So it's just coincidence?"

"Yes."

"Now, why so frosty?" Christian settled himself in the banquette across from me and raised an eyebrow. "If you don't work for her anymore, you _don't_ need to protect her from big, bad me. I never understood why you were so loyal to her, anyway. She treats everyone like crap in her handbag."

"You _used_ me, Christian" I said pointedly.

"No, I didn't. True, it _was_ a bit of icing on the cake that you were Miranda's assistant, but it was pointless to think she'd tell you anything important. Miranda Priestley doesn't tell her secrets to anyone."

"And how are you any better?"

He just smiled. "C'mon, Andy, don't be like that! We had a good time, didn't we?"

I almost growled in frustration. Christian had been charming, tender, and sweet when I badly needed it. I had just broken up with Nate, I was in a foreign country, I was (as always) stressed out from work. I slept with him in a moment of weakness, and regretted it almost immediately—he told me the next day about the plan for Jacqueline Follet to take over at _Runway _and how he was working for her. He had wanted me because I was close to Miranda, and because he thought I'd hate her enough to help him and Jacqueline take over.

"At this point" I said coldly, "it's irrelevant."

"Just listen to you" he shook his head. "You even sound like her. You know, when you worked for her, there _were_ some rumors flying around—maybe there was some truth in them."

"What the hell are you talking about?!"

Christian's smile turned malicious. "Here's some nobody college student from _Ohio_, of all places, working for Miranda Priestley and within months, she's taken the place of the first assistant who's been with Miranda three years. _And _she's accompanying La Priestley to Paris while La Priestley's _husband_ divorces her. And now you're both _here_. You can't blame people for wondering how _personal_ an assistant you were…"

"_Leave!"_ I hissed.

He laughed and stood up. I couldn't believe what happened next.

Miranda glided over to the table and intercepted him.

"Christian Thompson!" she exclaimed, beaming with delight. "How wonderful to see you again! How is the new job coming?"

Christian's face tightened. Clearly, whatever he was doing now wasn't something he enjoyed. But he air-kissed her cheek and replied warmly, "Couldn't be better. You look lovely Miranda, as always."

"I see you remember Ahn-dre-ah" she continued, still smiling. "She's here to do research for Theo Marsden and he will be joining us shortly. Would you care to stay and have a drink?"

"Don't mind if I do" he winked at me. I felt like yelling at Miranda, "_What in the name of God do you think you're doing?!!!"_ But I kept quiet. I figured anything I said would make things worse.

"Ahn-dre-ah" she said in her haughtiest voice. "Go to the bar and get drinks for Mr. Marsden and myself. I'm sure he informed you that he would be joining me for dinner. Merlot for me and a martini for him."

I went.

As soon as I got to the bar, my cell rang. I fished it out of my purse and stared at Miranda's number blinking up at me.

"He's following you" she said. "If you wish to stay employed with Theo or employable at all anywhere in New York, do _exactly_ as I tell you. Have you ordered the drinks yet?"

"No" I said.

"Good. Go to the ladies' room. Don't hang up. Pretend you're talking to a friend of yours about your weekend."

I began to walk towards the bathroom. In a slightly louder voice than normal, I said, "I'm at the Blackstone…can you believe it?! I mean, it's for work, of course, but the place is incredible! I plan to take plenty of pictures."

"Be sure you do. Theo will be impressed."

"Do you think it would look weird if I took pictures of the food?"

"Yes."

"Well, maybe I won't do that" I fought an urge to giggle hysterically. People at nearby tables were glaring at me and I was on a cloak-and-dagger mission for Miranda Priestley. It was all too surreal.

"Are you there yet?"

I stepped through the door, seeing Christian head for the bar out of the corner of my eye. "Yes."

"Right. After the debacle in Paris, Christian has become a quite bitter man. And somewhat less popular as an author. Apparently, someone let it out that he was dating an ex-assistant of mine in order to spy on me. People are rather reluctant to let him write articles about them now. He has a grudge, and that makes him dangerous. What did he say to you?"

"He was totally nasty and implied that you and I had some sort of inappropriate relationship."

She was silent a moment. "I see. Well, not many people were as loyal to me as you were. Until you betrayed me by leaving, of course."

"I _told _you why I had to do that" I whispered furiously as I headed into a stall. There were only a few women in the bathroom, but I still didn't want them to overhear me.

"Fortunately" she went on, "I think I can sweeten his temper. The last thing I heard was that he was trying to do something on country retreats that celebrities favor. If that's what he's here for, I will give him a quote, and that will almost guarantee him a shot at _Vanity Fair._ Stay in the bathroom for at least ten minutes, and bring the drinks on your way back. I think he'll leave if I give him the impression that either _Vanity Fair_ or _Runway _will purchase his article. He's only staying one night. When you come back, you be sure to mention that Theo called to cancel our dinner plans. I will be appropriately disappointed and angry. That's all."

The phone clicked off. I stayed in the bathroom (I actually had to go by now) and took my time washing my hands and re-applying lipstick. Then I went to the bar and ordered Miranda's wine.

When I got back to the table, Christian was cozied up next to Miranda, sipping a scotch on the rocks. For a minute, I fantasized about dumping the wine over his head.

"Ahn-dre-ah, have you suddenly gone deaf? Where is Mr. Marsden's drink?" Miranda's glare was at its iciest. I handed her the glass of wine. "Mr. Marsden called while I was in the bar. He said to send his regrets. Something's come up at the office and he won't be able to make it."

Miranda's lips tightened and she actually went even paler. Her eyes were like highly-polished steel. Abruptly, she rose. "Excuse me, please."

Christian let her out of the banquette and she strode out of the dining room without another word.

"What happened?" I asked with semi-genuine amazement.

"I have no idea. She gave me some great quotes about this place—I'm doing an article on upscale New England hotels—and was even talking like _Runway_ might be interested in the piece when you came back. What's going on between her and your boss, do you think?"

I shook my head. "No idea. I don't poke my nose into Mr. Marsden's private life."

"Huh. Interesting. Well, my lovely Andy, I think I'll take my leave. I'm moving on to the Weybosset tomorrow. Call me if you change your mind."

"About what?!" I demanded.

He laughed. "Anything. Anything at all."

o—0—o—0—o

I wrote the first half of my review that night and didn't hear any more from Miranda. The food was excellent—absolutely four-star, and I knew Theo would be pleased when I included the breakfast and lunch menus.

I decided to take a long hot bath before I went to bed—I figured I'd earned it. I soaked in the hotel's gardenia-scented bubbles and toyed with the idea of calling Miranda to see what else she planned to do about Christian and then snorted at the idea of myself _voluntarily_ calling Miranda for anything.

I was so pissed at him! Clearly, the slime bucket would stoop to _anything_! As _if_ my relationship with Miranda was anything other than professional. As _if_ she had ever been anything to me other than the same ice-queen she was to everyone else. As _if _she would even _look_ at someone like me…

I sat up in the tub, my eyes flying wide open at that last thought. The water in the tub was hot, but I could still feel my ears and cheeks turn red. I remembered how the sight of Miranda's bare shoulders had affected me. And then, much against my will, I remembered that night in Paris: Miranda barefoot and without makeup, her eyes red from crying. Talking about her girls and how she'd lost them another father-figure, and about her fear of how the press would affect them. At the time, I would have hugged her if I had thought she would let me. I knew she had to be near the breaking point to be telling me, an underling, an _employee _about her life.

She had _trusted_ me. True, she had been in a vulnerable state. But she had _let_ me see it. And I had walked away, because I was a coward. I didn't want to end up like her, as if her loneliness was catching. I didn't want to take the responsibility for the choices I'd made.

I sank under the bubbles to brood.

o—0—o—0—o

After she had left the dining room, Miranda had gone up to her room and ordered a latte and a croissant from room service. She changed into her silk pajamas and prepared to spend her evening going over the Book. She would messenger it back to the city tomorrow.

She heartily wished Christian Thompson in hell. She needed him like she needed a bad case of stomach flu. Thank _God _Andrea had followed her orders to the letter. Better for the bastard to think _she_ and Theo were fighting among themselves than to let him get one whiff of Theo's _other_ machinations. Sometime, someplace, she would pay her dear friend back_ twice_ over for what he was putting her through now.

She shook her head and tried to focus on the layout for the April Showers spread. Florals. _Again._ Didn't _anyone_ ever think of anything else when the weather got warm?! This time it was floral raincoats and umbrellas. Banal. It was nothing _new_, and new was fashion's first commandment. She wondered why none of her staff could comprehend this. She wondered what Andrea was thinking right now. She wondered what Andrea looked like in pajamas, if she even _wore_ pajamas—

_Stop it!_

Miranda sighed and laid her head down on her arms. For the first time in over twenty years, she had no idea of her next move. This was completely new territory.

She picked up her phone and hit speed dial.

"Hello?" Theo's mellow tones floated into her ear with just a shadow of amusement.

"It's me."

"Of course it is. Are you calling to threaten me with death or to thank me?"

"Both, I think."

"Most excellent. Is she with you?"

"No. I got so furious when I saw her here I had them put her in another room."

"Tsk. Well, I _was_ thinking to save you some trouble. You could always have offered to share, or gotten a room close by."

"She's just across the hall."

"Better than on a different floor, I suppose."

We were both quiet for a moment, then I confessed it. "I don't know what to do."

"_You_ don't know what to do? I cannot believe my ears."

"I don't. With everyone else, _they_ did…the pursuing."

"Ah."

"And Christian Thompson's here. I had to fend him off by giving him a quote for his article and I'm probably going to have to have _Runway_ buy it to boot. Andrea told me he's already made nasty insinuations about us."

"Merry, darling" Theo's tone was gentle. "Who said being in love was _easy?_ Give me simple unadulterated lust _any_ day. By the way, is that _sinfully_ delicious bellhop James still working there?"

"He is."

"Pity I've got to stay in the city this weekend. As for your dilemma, it seems to me that your first priority is privacy. You need a place to talk to her without interruption, and without Christian Thompson or any other gossiping bloodsuckers. Do you want me to arrange something?"

"You might as well. She's onto you, you know."

"I would be _very_ disappointed in her intelligence if she wasn't. Leave it to me and I'll work something out. And remember this: it's not a weakness to love someone."


	10. Chapter 10

My phone jarred me awake at six o'clock. Half asleep, I picked it up and muttered hello.

"Rise and shine, Ms. Sachs" Theo said tartly. "I have an assignment for you. Get a pencil and write this down."

I managed to restrain myself from groaning only through sheer effort of will. I fumbled for the hotel stationary and pencil that lay inside the desk. "Yes, sir."

"There's a little restaurant called Nora Lee's about five miles away from the Blackstone. I want you to sample their lunch menu."

"Ok—all right."

"I am also loaning you to your old boss for the day. Nora Lee's also features jewelry designed and handmade by the owner. Ms. Priestley has decided to have a look at it and mentioned she would need some help."

I grinned to myself. I couldn't help it. Did he have any idea how transparent he was being? Aloud, I said. "Yes, sir."

"Bring the laptop, your notebook, and a _good attitude_. I want nothing less than a _sterling _report of your behavior, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir. Absolutely." I cleared my throat, which was tickling madly with repressed hysterical giggles.

"Right. You will be there at 11:30. Get the directions from Map Quest." He hung up and I burst into laughter. And the more I laughed the funnier it got. I couldn't imagine a more unlikely Cupid than Theo Marsden—he would have criticized Botticelli's Venus for being too fat—but clearly he was trying to throw me and Miranda together. I wondered if she knew. Or maybe had asked him to. Oh dear God. What in the hell would I _wear?!_

I flew to the closet and rummaged through the stuff I'd brought. Sadly, very little of it would do to lunch with Miranda, although it was just fine for toodling around on my own. The leather jacket, of course. Some black slacks and a chocolate-brown sweater…shoes? I cursed. I had not packed a single pair with high heels, since I do not associate high heels with the country. Of course, I had never seen Miranda wearing anything else. The closest thing I had were some black ankle boots with low heels. They would have to do, unless I could buy something. On the other hand, they were secondhand Chanel, which Miranda would approve of more than she would a high heel in a knockoff brand. And I had brought some of my best accessories with me. Some of the pieces even dated from my _Runway_ days. I took special care of my hair and makeup. If I was going to make a complete fool of myself, at least I could look smashing while I did it.

Breakfast at the Blackstone was at seven. I was relieved when I got through the whole meal without seeing either Christian or Miranda (somehow, I wasn't quite ready to face her yet), and delighted when I tasted the light, feathery crepes with fresh strawberries. The coffee, while not as good as Theo's personal blend, was still excellent: rich and creamy and strong without being bitter.

As I drove to Riverbury, the small village where Nora Lee's was located, I tried to ignore the fact that my stomach seemed to be full of nervous butterflies. _Calm down_, I told myself. _Miranda will probably spend the day sending you running all over the planet and making her phone calls. She may know that Theo's jerking her around to an extent but as yet, you _don't_ know if she has any idea _why.

Riverbury managed, to its credit, to be picturesque without being too touristy. I arrived around 10:30 and spent my time walking around the main square. It had an actual square of green grass that made a little park in front of the town hall, just like something out of a post card. I looked in some of the shop windows then went into the park and sat down on a bench. I didn't see Miranda's Jaguar anywhere; I hoped I wasn't going to be stood up.

At 11:00, I made my way over to Nora Lee's, which was on the north side of the square. It was a little bistro-type place with the owner's jewelry displayed in a glass case at the front. I looked at the pieces, making a game of trying to guess which ones Miranda might like. I thought Nora Lee, whoever she was, was quite talented. There was a necklace in delicate crystal beadwork as fine as a spider's web, some tiny flower-shaped gold-tone earrings with what looked like peridot set into the centers, and a gorgeous pin in amethyst and silver. The rest was lovely, too, but not much different from what other designers were doing.

"Good afternoon! Welcome to Nora Lee's." A thin, dark haired girl stood at a counter on which there was an old-fashioned cash register with brass scrollwork all over it. She smiled, showing braces on her teeth. "Do you have a reservation?"

"Priestley?" I asked.

The girl looked down at a clipboard. "Priestley…there's no Priestley here. All I have is a Princhek."

"That's it" I said, relieved that I remembered Miranda's original name.

"Party of two?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to wait?"

"Sure." Relieved that she hadn't yet arrived and that I would at least not be bitched out for being late, I took a seat on Queen Anne-style sofa near the door. My palms were beginning to sweat and my mouth felt dry. I re-applied lipstick and decided that three cups of coffee probably hadn't been the best idea.

Miranda came through the door at 11:30 on the dot, wearing gray slacks and a white silk shirt and her sunglasses. I rose as she approached. "Is the table ready, Ahn-dre-ah?" she said instead of hello.

"Yes, it is" I answered. I wasn't offended. If Miranda was behaving like, well, _Miranda_, then I would be a lot less nervous. I nodded to the hostess. "She's here."

"Follow me, please." The girl chirped with a bright smile. I saw Miranda looking her up and down with that familiar appraising stare. The hostess was wearing a simple black skirt and charcoal top with a pendant that looked like hematite on a silver chain. Miranda nodded slightly to herself.

Our table was in a back booth near a sunny window that overlooked a little patio out back. "Mr. Marsden tells me I'm to help you today" I said when we were seated. I got out my notebook and a pen. "What do you need?"

"You need to put that thing away" she said, sounding irritated. "Mr. Marsden is full of…well, I think you know."

"I do indeed" I said. She smiled faintly. "How long have you known what he was doing, Ahn-dre-ah?"

"Since about two months in" I sighed and re-capped my pen. "I knew it couldn't be an accident when you kept showing up whenever he and I were out together. Especially since you didn't have Emily or anyone with you. I just assumed that you wanted to witness my humiliation."

"I did. At first." Miranda looked down at her hands as our waitress came over with menus and asked if we wanted coffee. I declined and asked for water with lemon. Miranda had the same.

"You went to so much trouble" I went on when the waitress was gone. "You paid my hospital bills, you became _friends_ with my _parents_, you had _Runway _buy the_ Mirror_ for God's sake! I thought, after Paris, that you would never want to see me again."

"I thought so too, until you got shot." Miranda shook her head. "I don't think I've been that frightened since Cassidy had a near-fatal asthma attack when she was five. I was so angry when you left that I thought it was a perfect opportunity to humble you—to make you owe me—but I was terrified, too." She looked up and smiled with a touch of bitterness. "However angry I was, I never wanted you dead."

"That's a relief" I said. She rolled her eyes. "Don't be a smartass, Ahn-dre-ah."

I grinned. "Wouldn't dream of it." _Is she actually talking to me like an_ _equal?_

"I was determined to have you back where I could at least keep an eye on you. At the time, I told myself that it would be very nice if you became successful—and were never allowed to forget that you owed _me_ your success."

"I remember that conversation."

Miranda winced. "So do I. I was so stupid. Theo helped me see how stupid I was." She looked me straight in the eye. "But I'm not sorry I did what I did. You are a wonderful writer, Ahn-dre-ah. And you were there for me when I badly needed help. I'm looking forward to reading your articles in the _New Yorker_ or _Time _or wherever you decide to go in the end."

"Why did you screw Nigel over, Miranda?" I asked softly. "_How _could you do that? He was one of your best people and he was _loyal_ to you."

"I know that. And I wish it hadn't been necessary, but the truth is that unbeknownst to me, Jacqueline had been cultivating Irv Ravitz for over a year. They had developed a very cozy little relationship—Irv is a notorious womanizer, as I'm sure you've heard. I had hoped to pass the reins to Nigel eventually, but as it was, the only thing I could do was to make sure Jacqueline got an even better offer. As soon as she signed on with James Holt, I began the process of recommending Nigel for _Runway Francais_. And in the end, he forgave me."

"When you said all that about how I'd done the same thing....you know, to Emily…I panicked" I said honestly. "You were so _alone_. Except for your kids, I couldn't think of a single person I had met who was your friend—a _real_ friend, and I knew it was because _Runway _was your top priority. I was afraid of becoming that. My fiancé and my best friend had both broken up with me over my job! I didn't want to end up alone, no matter how famous or rich I got. That life wasn't worth it to me. I wanted to make a difference in the world, but not at that cost."

Miranda raised an eyebrow. "Who, at this point, do you think is in the better position to 'make a difference': you or me?"

"I know" I sighed. "Like I said, I panicked. And it never even occurred to me that when you talked to me about how worried you were about the girls, that you were_ trusting _me, or what a gift that was. I was stupid, too." I shook my head. "And you were right. I _did _choose to get ahead. Emily was never my friend, but I _could _have quit."

"And if you had, you would have been essentially unemployable" Miranda said calmly. "One thing I test in all my girls, when they are ready for promotion, is whether they are prepared to make exactly those choices. If they are not, then they do not have what it takes to be at the top. And if they don't have that, they don't last long in the magazine world. Do you think if the positions had been reversed, that _Emily_ would have stood aside for _you?_"

"_Never"_ I said, laughing. Miranda smiled a real smile, her full lips curving up at the corners. She looked beautiful. I gulped and looked down at the menu without really seeing it. In another minute I was going to start blushing like I was twelve or something.

"Are you ladies ready to order?" our waitress asked, gliding over, pencil and pad at the ready.

"I'll have the apple-walnut salad and the grilled salmon" Miranda gave her a pleasant smile as she handed back her menu. "Ahn-dre-ah?"

Nobody ever pronounced my name the way Miranda did. When I worked at _Runway_, it used to make my insides fall into my shoes because it meant I'd screwed up. Hearing it now gave me the same physical reaction in a different way. I took a deep breath and tried to pull myself together. "The lobster bisque, the clam chowder, the salmon, the steak—medium, please, the oyster appetizer and the cheesecake and apple tart to follow, please."

The waitress stared. "All of that?!" she asked incredulously.

Miranda gave her a withering look, but I just passed the girl Theo's business card. Her mouth fell open. "Oh my God! You work for _Theo Marsden?!_ _He_ wants to review _us?!_ Will you excuse me? Nora is going to want to speak with you herself. Is that okay?"

"Of course" I said. Miranda rolled her eyes again, sighed, and slid her sunglasses back on as soon as the girl had scuttled off. "I don't suppose it crossed your mind, Ahn-dre-ah, that Theo will care _nothing_ about this place or its owner? That sending you here was simply a blind?"

"He told me to sample the lunch menu and that's what I'm doing" I retorted. "It may have been a fake, but I'm willing to bet he'll _still_ ask for the review"

"I think it's my turn to go to the ladies' room" she said as she stood up. "I spoke to Theo last night. He offered to arrange for us to speak _privately_."

"Then he should have told me. _I've_ known what he's been doing for months; I don't know how he could have expected me not to figure it out, but—"

"He _does_ know you've figured it out." Miranda departed for the bathroom, shaking her head at my obtuseness. The waitress re-appeared with the owner/chef, who shook my hand warmly and smiled when I complimented her jewelry. "I hope you like the food just as much."

"I hope so, too." I smiled my professional smile. "How long have you been in business?"

"Five years this June" she settled herself in the booth opposite me. "Kirsten" she said to the waitress, "Table five's order is up." The girl hurried away.

"And you're the chef."

"That's right. I started this place with money I got from my divorce. My ex-husband and I used to summer here and we loved the area. My partner Gillian runs the business end. You met her at the front door."

"The girl with the braces? She seems awfully young for a business partner."

Nora chuckled. "Don't let that sweet face fool you. Gillian's thirty-six. She just had to get the braces last year." She toyed with a small silver ring on the fourth finger of her left hand. "We've been together for five years. She handles the hostessing during the day, the accounts, and the hiring while I cook. She also handles the web site. Gus McBride is my assistant chef, and he joined us two years ago. So far I have ten servers per shift—about 20 total—plus 10 bus people and 2 dishwashers."

"So your growth must have been pretty good since you opened."

"Yes. I've been lucky that so far, there haven't been any serious competitors. Before the Blackstone changed their staff, Riverbury didn't get many tourists. Now that's starting to change and I'm in the lead at the moment." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Miranda returning from the bathroom. Nora saw her too and stood up. "I hope you both enjoy the meal." She extended her hand to Miranda. "Hi. I'm Nora Lee."

"Nice to meet you" Miranda said pleasantly. "Can I ask you for some of the lobster bisque? It looked delicious and I'm afraid I forgot to tell our waitress to bring it with my salad."

"Of course. I'll send her right out." Nora bustled away as Miranda sat down, shades still on. I wondered, irrelevantly, if she had kept them on the whole time she was in the john.

"Are you finished interviewing people?" she inquired in acid tones.

"Yes" I sighed. "I'm sorry about that. I think if you want privacy, we'd better go for a drive afterwards. There's usually nothing more private than a moving car. Did you check out the jewelry? Some of it's really good."

"I have no _intention _of checking out the jewelry. _Runway_ deals with _established _designers."

I made a snap decision. "Excuse me for a moment, will you?"

I went to the front of the restaurant and asked Gillian how much the amethyst pin was. "Seventy-five" she replied. "Are you interested in it?"

"Will you take a check from a New York bank?"

"We can" she said, "but a debit card works better if you have one."

I forked over my card. Seventy-five bucks was a lot of money, but I knew Miranda would love the pin. Gillian took it out of the case. "Would you like me to gift-wrap it for you?"

"No, thanks. Just hand it to me"

She handed me the pin and I returned to the table. Miranda raised her eyebrows as I sat down and put the pin on the table. "Look at this" I said, "and tell me this is not unique."

Miranda sat forward and took her glasses off. She held up the pin to the light. The design was an extraordinarily delicate flower-and-vine motif, set at a curving angle. "This is quite good" she said, sounding surprised.

"I told you so."

She turned it this way and that, examining the workmanship. "She does these herself?"

"Yes, from what Theo told me."

Miranda nodded. Twice. I grinned to myself. In Miranda-ese, two nods means _very_ good. She took out her cell and flipped it open. "What's the number here?"

"I'll find out."

I got the info from Gillian who smiled and asked me if my friend liked the pin. I tried not to be distracted by the idea that Miranda and I might be _friends_. Today was the first time since Paris that she had even spoken to me like a human being.

Miranda immediately dialed her office and left a message for her assistant about calling the restaurant where she was presently seated, while I tried not to snort. It was so typically _Miranda._

"Here", flipping her phone closed, she tried to hand the pin back to me.

"Keep it", I said. "I bought it for you."

She actually looked taken aback at that. "Are you sure? It's a lovely piece."

"No, it's yours. Keep it. Consider it a thank-you."

Her face actually went a bit pink and for a moment, I thought she would refuse, but she took the pin and fastened it immediately to her shirt, where it glowed against the white silk. "Thank _you_, Ahn-dre-ah" she said softly.

"You're welcome.


	11. Chapter 11

Miranda was very aware of the purple shimmer at the edge of her vision. The pin _was _gorgeous, somehow classic and new at the same time. _This_ was what was needed for spring. Jocelyn and the others could bloody well build around it.

Andrea sat across from her, frowning thoughtfully as she took tiny bites of the appetizers and made notes as she ate. It really _was _rather adorable how earnest she was. Miranda would lay odds that the review would never make it to Theo's page, but on other hand, who knew? Life was so topsy-turvy at the moment Miranda hardly knew what to expect anymore. Here she was—a woman almost _fifty_ for God's sake—on a _date_ with an ex-assistant of hers. A _female _ex-assistant, to boot! She had three marriages and had dated hundreds more men, but she had never felt so nervous and excited in her entire life. She only prayed she wasn't making a fool of herself. It took an effort for her to meet Andrea's dark gaze without blushing like an idiot schoolgirl.

She had been more honest in the past hour than she had been for years. She was taking a huge leap of faith here. She was certain Andrea would not betray her intentionally to the press if she became "uncomfortable" with the depth of Miranda's feelings, but simple rejection would be painful enough. The girl had, after all, a million reasons to say no: the age difference, Miranda's need for control, the difference in their incomes and social circles, the need for extreme discretion, and the tiny little fact that Miranda had no idea Andrea felt the same way or not. True, she had given her the pin, but she had also called it a "thank-you". Gratitude was nice, but Miranda knew it would not be enough.

"Well? Is the food up to Marsden standards?"

Andrea swallowed the bite she was chewing. "Yes. I think he would like this. It's only typical New England fare, but the cooking and seasoning is excellent. And now that I've tasted everything, I intend to have a _real_ lunch." She pulled the bowl of lobster bisque closer and pushed the rest of the appetizers away. Miranda shook her head at the decadence. "All that butter and cream."

"I'll do an extra thirty minutes on the Stair Master. And I'm going to have the grilled salmon, too. And no more dessert. That should be all right. Mmmm!" She closed her eyes in ecstasy as she tasted the bisque, which did not help Miranda's state of mind. "This is _sinful._"

"Yes", Miranda sighed and nodded. "I'm probably going to have to put in some time at the gym as well. Be sure and drink plenty of water."

"I will. So…when we get done here, what do you want to do next? Do you want to go for a drive with me?"

"To where?"

"To nowhere. Just out in the country. Because it's beautiful and private."

"All right. Do you know this area well?"

"No. It's my first time."

"Then I'd better do the driving. I don't have time to get hopelessly lost."

"Okay. How are the twins?"

"They're fine." Miranda said cautiously, a little wary of Andrea's blithe acceptance of the barb. "Enjoying their new school…Caroline's made tons of friend's already and Cassidy is enjoying the art department."

"Where are they going to school now?"

"Whitcombe Academy."

"Boarding school? Won't they miss you?"

Miranda shrugged. "During the divorce, I thought it best to get them right away from all the ugliness. And they're used to me being gone." She did not bother to add that she was not yet used to _them_ being gone—she felt awkward enough already. One thing Miranda Priestley did _not_ do well was small talk.

"How's that going?" Andrea asked sympathetically. It took all of Miranda's willpower not to abruptly change the subject. Small talk was bad; confessionals were worse.

"Almost finished. There was a prenup, so there's been very little fuss."

"Well, that's good, at least. Isn't it?"

"More like necessary" Miranda said grimly. Andrea nodded, then took a deep breath and tried again. "How's work?"

"We're working on the April isue."

"Tell me about it."

"Well…" Miranda said, more than a little surprised that the young woman who had seemed to scorn the whole _idea_ of style during her _Runway_ tenure would make such a request. "…actually, I don't like several of the new layouts. Every spring we seem to do a massive amount of floral chiffon. It's getting old, but no one seems to have an idea about what _else_ might fit with the season. Right now, they're pushing floral raincoats and rubber boots."

"Hmm. But aren't florals kind of classic for spring?"

"Of course. But fashion is driven by what's _new_, not what's classic. Without freshness to please the eye, without novelty, a style grows stale and doesn't generate as much interest as it used to. In terms of sales, this is a minus."

Andrea shook her head. "I always thought it was a million-dollar mindfuck."

"Don't be coarse" snapped Miranda. More softly she explained, "It is. Certainly it is, but it's one that's been going on since primitive man put on his first loincloth".

"I thought it was fig leaves" Andrea deadpanned. Miranda laughed. "Clothes have power" she continued. "For example, what happens when you walk into a job interview and you're wearing a wrinkled, baggy suit? Or a ratty pair of jeans?"

"Or a lumpy blue sweater?" Andrea rolled her eyes and grinned. "You don't get the job, of course."

"Exactly. If your clothing is too casual or unkempt, it makes you look sloppy, careless, and rather unintelligent. And of course, a fashion magazine would have the highest of standards. That ghastly sweater would have done if you were applying to be a barista at Starbucks, but not if you want to be seen as professional. And even those suits you've been wearing—nice though they are—aren't trendy enough for a place like _Runway_ or _Vogue _or_ Elle._"

"But what _makes _something stylish?" Andrea leaned forward gazing at Miranda with genuine interest. (_Would wonders never cease today?)_ "I mean, it can't _always _be aesthetics. I remember when I worked for you that one of the other magazines did this layout that featured dresses that looked like gray tweed feedbags, and all the models were wearing purple tights with them! One model even had on an orange one with green tights! "Pumpkin Chic", they called it. What can possibly be chic about a _pumpkin_?! And there was another lime-green dress that had these horizontal ridges in the fabric. It looked like a collapsible drinking cup! This is supposed to be _beautiful_?!"

Miranda really laughed then. How delightful when a raw young girl began developing an eye for style! She remembered those pictures and had thought the idea of "pumpkin chic" had probably been brought on by late nights, a tight deadline, and possibly too much espresso. "Not beautiful. _Trendy. New._ And you have to admit, it is _definitely_ new to try and make pumpkins fashionable. They might have gotten away with it if they'd stuck to the idea of the pumpkin being Cinderella's carriage or some such thing. The thing about fashion, is that it feeds entirely on novelty. The designers _are _artists, and every artist produces their share of mistakes, but the problem is that once they have a name, the designers _have_ to produce regularly if they want to sell anything. Inspiration doesn't always come when it is called, and sometimes absurdity takes its place. The designers _must _produce, and the magazines _must_ feature famous names if they want to keep circulating. It's what happens when an art becomes a business."

"But don't new trends emerge just with everyday people sometimes?"

"Sometimes. More often with celebrities. But mostly, for good or for ill, it's the designers. It's a very stressful job, but like most arts, people do it simply because they love it."

"And you love it" Andrea said softly.

"Yes, I do." Miranda paused, a feeling her smile grow mischievous. "Tell me, Andrea, do you remember the two turquoise belts?"

Andrea winced. "As if I could ever forget."

"Do you remember the one I chose?" Andrea nodded. "Why did I choose that one, Andrea? Think about the outfit as a whole, and tell me why I chose that particular one."

Andrea closed her eyes in thought. "At the time, I thought they were the same—absolutely identical except for the buckles."

"Go on."

The brunette frowned, her eyes still closed. "The only thing I can think of is…the ruffles of the dress had some kind of metallic edging, right? And one of the belts had a big, square, metallic buckle, and you didn't pick that one. Was it because you didn't want to overdo the metallic?"

"Very good." Miranda nodded. "It would have grabbed the eye too much. The color alone against the red of the dress was enough."

The waitress returned then with the news that the meal was on the house. Andrea thanked her and left a generous tip. Miranda did the same and they left the bistro.


	12. Chapter 12

I almost regretted my strategy in suggesting that Miranda and I go driving. As soon as we were out of Riverbury, she floored the accelerator, jacking the speed up to 70 in a 55 zone. I clutched the door handle and focused all my energy on not turning pale.

Miranda raised an eyebrow and me and smiled rather crookedly. "Don't worry, Andrea. I've been driving for over twenty years in this country and have yet to have an accident."

With an effort, I managed to fold my hands in my lap. "You must think I'm a total wuss."

"You? Never."

We flew down highways and whipped around curves, the scenery flashing past. "My daughters' school is only thirty miles from Riverbury. I figured we might as well have a destination." Miranda sighed and nodded to her Hermes bag on the seat. "Get out my cell and call the school office. It's on speed-dial. Tell them we'll be arriving shortly."

"Please."

"Please, what?" Miranda turned and looked at me, swerving around an object in the road at the same time. A pitiful squeak escaped me; I couldn't help it.

"It's _nothing_, Andrea. For God's sake—"

"_Say _please", I said. "If we're going to have any sort of relationship, then you _ask_ me. You don't order me."

For a moment, I thought she would refuse. I could tell by looking at her that nobody had said such a thing to her in many a year. Then she looked back at the road. "All right", she said evenly. "Will you _please_ call the office of my daughters' school and let them know we're coming?"

"Yes, I will." I fished the cell out of her purse.

"And Andrea?"

"Yeah?"

"_That's all_."

I stared at her. She grinned, and suddenly we were both cracking up. I had never heard her laugh like that before—a deep-throated, bubbling roar of mirth. Her pale cheeks flushed pink and she looked more beautiful than ever.

"I suppose…" I choked, feeling tears streaming down my face, "…I suppose it _was_ too much to hope that you _wouldn't_ manage to have the last word."

"Quite right. I am an expert, after all. And your mascara's running. There's some tissue in my bag."

"Thanks" I rummaged the tissue out and looked into the visor mirror as I blotted my face. "You know, Nate always used to say that about me, too. I said I couldn't help it if I was right most of the time."

Miranda laughed again. "Good answer, but it wouldn't have worked in my case. Stephen wouldn't have found it the tiniest bit amusing."

We passed by a lake, brilliantly blue in the afternoon sun. "How long do you want to spend with the girls?" I asked.

"A couple of hours. Just long enough to see how they're settling in. Caroline will want me in and out in five minutes, but I think Cassidy would appreciate a visit."

"Is she homesick?"

"I think so—not that she'd want to admit it, of course; Caroline teases her enough as it is. But her emails have sounded a bit wistful lately. It's a big change for them both. But as I said before, she's enjoying the art department. Whitcombe Academy has a wonderful arts program and Cassidy has always been fascinated with fashion design. She wants a sewing machine for Christmas."

"And Caroline's more outgoing, I guess?"

"That's right. I worry less about her making friends. Do you plan to have children someday, Andrea?"

"I don't know" I said, startled. "I never gave the idea a lot of thought."

"Neither did I, at your age" Miranda sighed. "But from my perspective I can say that it's something you need to _start_ thinking about. I had the twins late, you know…I was thirty-nine. I had been so busy as a young woman, always working to get to American _Runway_. I knew what I wanted from the time I was ten years old, and children didn't figure into it. Then when I hit my mid-thirties I started thinking about what I was missing, and Paul—that was my second husband—really wanted a family. Now I have two beautiful girls that I rarely see, who have been raised largely by nannies. If you are truly dedicated to being the best, the very top in your career, it doesn't leave much time for anyone else. I made a lot of mistakes."

"But you stayed _involved_" I protested. "I remember that time you got stuck in Miami during the hurricane and you were upset because you missed the twins' concert."

"And the reason _why _I got so upset was precisely _because_ I need to spend every spare minute with them and I have very few spare minutes. You never did call Irv or Donatella, did you?"

"_Excuse_ me, yes I did!" I retorted. "Irv hung up and Donatella's assistant yelled at me in Italian and then hung up. _And _the airline accused me of being a front for terrorists. It sucks that there was a hurricane, but no pilot in his right mind will fly in that kind of weather! What if you'd been killed?! What would happen to Caroline and Cassidy then?"

"I wouldn't have been killed" Miranda said stubbornly. "Donatella's pilot is very good."

I decided this line of conversation wasn't going anywhere. "When we get there, do you want me to wait in the car?"

"No. If we're really going to…" she cleared her throat. "It's better if they get used to seeing you with me. I don't need to tell you that discretion will need to be paramount."

"Nope. No need to tell me." I dialed the school office.

"Whitcombe Academy" a cool female voice answered.

"I have Miranda Priestley calling for Caroline and Cassidy Priestley."

"One moment please."

There was silence, then a girl's voice that sounded almost exactly like Miranda's own said, "Yes?"

"Caroline?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Please hold for your mother" I handed the phone to Miranda, who was looking half amused and half annoyed. "Hello, darling!" she cooed. "Guess what? I'm at the Blackstone this weekend. I thought I'd drop by and see how you and Cass are getting on." She was silent for a moment, then she said reassuringly "No, not long. Will you let her know? Thanks lovey! See you soon."

"Did she ask if you plan to hang around all day?" I asked.

"In almost those exact words" Miranda sighed as she snapped the phone shut. "She's only eleven. I shudder to think what the next few years will bring."

"As long as she doesn't get pregnant or start doing drugs, you're probably in the clear" I said dryly.

Whitcombe Academy looked like a medieval manor house surrounded by an iron fence. The guard at the gate buzzed us in and when we drove up to the school, one of Miranda's daughters (I didn't know them well enough to tell which one), was waiting near the front door. "Hello Cass" Miranda bent down and kissed the air next to her daughter's cheek. The girl returned the kiss. Already, at that young age, she seemed familiar with the custom that women adopt so their makeup won't get smeared.

"Hello, Mum. Caro says she'll be down in a minute. She's putting lipstick on." Cassidy rolled her eyes. I raised my eyebrows at Miranda: lipstick? At eleven?

Miranda shrugged. "It's how old I was when I began wearing it. I didn't see any point in being a hypocrite."

Cassidy looked at me. "New assistant?" she asked her mother.

"Cass, you remember Andrea."

"No, I don't. You have tons of new assistants."

"You should remember" I said. "You and your sister played a rather nasty trick on me the first time I came to your house."

Cassidy grinned. "That's no help. We play tricks on everyone. Are you the one we water-bombed?"

"No, I'm the one you told to bring the Book upstairs."

"Oh, yeah! I remember now. We never thought you'd actually fall for it. _Everyone_ knows you never come into our house any farther than the foyer. We got in a lot of trouble over that. No cell phones for a whole week!"

I was surprised. I had gotten into some pretty deep shit myself, but I had never dreamed that Miranda would reprimand her daughters.

"It wasn't as bad as the water-bomb time, though" Cassidy bubbled on. "We got the Book all wet and we both got spanked."

"Andrea works for the _New Yorker_" Miranda brushed some of her daughters' hair out of her eyes. "She assists with the food page."

"So you get to eat out all the time? That's cool."

Miranda's other daughter came through the front door then, wearing a pale green sundress and with her face expertly made up. She looked like a short sixteen-year-old. If I had ever come out of the house looking like that, my mother would have sent me right back in again.

"Caroline, is that your birthday dress?" Miranda asked ominously.

Caroline flushed. "I thought we might be going out to lunch". She glanced at me and looked questioningly at her mother.

"I'm afraid Andrea and I have just eaten. Are you hungry?"

"Yeah, a little."

"Then go upstairs and get changed and we'll take you somewhere." Miranda's tone was pleasant, but it was also no-nonsense.

"Didn't Mom fire you?" Caroline asked me abruptly. Miranda frowned.

"No." I said evenly. "She didn't." "She works at the _New Yorker_, Caro. Duh!" Cassidy put in. I decided I liked Cassidy.

"Go on, Caroline. We'll meet you in five minutes." Caroline turned and went back inside without a word.

"I'm sorry she's so rude" Cassidy said confidentially. "She always is, at first. But she'll get better as she gets to know you."

I laughed. "No worries. I'm not offended." I wondered why Miranda was worried about _Cassidy_ making friends; she seemed to be the nicer of the two.

Caroline returned several minutes later in jeans and sandals similar to Cassidy's. Both of them stuck close to Miranda, talking a mile a minute about what they were doing. It was obvious that despite some preteen grumbling, they had both missed her and were happy to see her.

Miranda drove—as per the twins' request—to a McDonald's in the town of Whitcombe, shaking her head at their taste in food and reminding them to drink lots of water and eat lots of fruit when they got back to school for dinner. Both girls rolled their eyes at her advice. I didn't say much, being too bemused by the sight of _Miranda Priestley_ in a McDonald's to say anything. Caroline and Cassidy mostly ignored my presence; although Cassidy would occasionally shoot and evil grin in my direction while Caroline did a fair imitation of her mother's icy indifference. Miranda was interested in everything they had to say, and both of them gave her a blow-by-blow about what their classmates were wearing.

By the time we got them back to their school it was four o'clock. Miranda was fairly quiet on the drive back to Riverbury and I wondered what—if anything—she was thinking. I cleared my throat. "Miranda?"

"Yes?"

"_Do_ you need my help with anything tonight?"

She gazed at the road for a moment. "No. But…"

I waited.

"You have to understand...this is not easy for me."

"I do understand that."

"I've been married three times, but I haven't really _dated_ in a long time. I haven't gone out with someone without having a plan of where we would go, what we would do…and _never_ with a woman. This may sound insane, coming from someone who runs a women's fashion magazine, but I really have no idea what women like to do. Other than shop, of course. I've never really had a hobby outside of fashion."

"It's not all that hard to figure out. I like movies, plays, museums sometimes, rollerblading, tennis, reading, and just talking."

"And I've never…" Miranda turned pink and fell silent, glancing sideways at me, or more specifically, at my mouth.

I shrugged, trying to act much cooler than I felt. "Neither have I. But it can't be that hard. Tell you what—we'll start with something simple. Can you drive with one hand?"

Miranda took her right hand off the wheel. I took it and held it firmly in my left. She looked startled, but didn't pull away. Her skin was soft and warmer than I had expected. I hoped mine wasn't sweaty. We sat there for several minutes like idiots, neither of us knowing what to say to the other. It reminded me of junior high school—you know, when you first like someone and they like you. You might both know it but neither of you know how to say anything without feeling stupid. Miranda's face stayed pink. I could have kissed her right there in the car, just for looking so cute and scared. I mean, this was the same woman who made executives, famous fashion designers, models, and her own huge staff tremble in their seven-hundred-dollar shoes!


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: Thanks so much for all the reviews! You guys inspire me every day! ******** The chapters will be shorter now and there will be more of them, because I agree that it's a bit confusing to switch between Miranda's and Andy's point of view. Keep up with the feedback!--MauMauKa**

Miranda had to take several deep breaths once Andrea had gotten safely into her own car for the drive back to the hotel. Her heart was racing like she'd done three miles on her treadmill's highest setting. She felt like a complete idiot; once Andrea had taken her hand, every thought—and every bit of her conversational skill—had flown right out of her head. All she could focus on was not wrapping the Jag around a tree. She hadn't held hands with anyone other than her daughters for a long time. Stephen hadn't been the hand-holding type. And really, neither had she. But she was sure she could acquire a taste for it. Especially since Andrea was definitely _not_ one of those people whose hand went limp in your own. Miranda had had her palm tickled, her knuckles stroked, and her whole hand gently squeezed from Whitcombe to Riverbury. It had shot her concentration straight to hell.

She had to be careful. No matter what Theo thought, she _did _care what the tabloids said. A well-known woman with children couldn't afford not to. The last thing she and the girls needed was a fresh scandal, but she was damned if she knew how long she could be around Andrea and keep her hands to herself. Her brain told her she was a perverted old lecher. Her body didn't give a damn what her brain said. And her heart was asking scornfully what the hell she was trying to prove by resisting the impulse to kiss her ex-assistant senseless.

She got back to the Blackstone ahead of Andrea. The concierge at the front desk told her she had a message from Theo, asking her to call him as soon as possible. She had no doubt he would cackle gleefully over her discomfort and decided to let him wait. She asked the concierge if there was anything else and he handed her a thick package from her courier service. She took it upstairs, looking forward to dinner in, working on the Book, and possibly a cold shower.

Her phone beeped. She looked at it. There was a text message. Flipping the phone open, she read: **TENNIS TOMORROW IN THE AM? I CAN PROMISE YOU I HATE LOSING—ANDY.**

She glanced towards the front doors. Andrea smiled waved at her through the glass, cell phone in hand. Her own phone beeped again. This time, the message said: **I ALSO PROMISE I CAN KEEP UP WITH YOU.**

_Yes, I do believe you can_, Miranda thought to herself as she gave up and went to the door. "You'd better be able to _keep_ that promise" she growled in an undertone to the grinning young woman on the other side of the door.

"Hey, I got a copy of the final _Harry Potter_ book _before_ it was published, when everyone said it couldn't be done."

"You weren't _supposed _to get it, you know. I was trying to fire you."

"I know" Andrea's smile grew even wider as they crossed the lobby under the curious gaze of the front desk. "And it was one of the best moments of my whole life when I was able not _only _to drop the manuscript on your desk, but tell you that the twins _already_ had their own copies."

Miranda snorted. Andrea laughed, and they proceeded towards the elevators. Once inside the dark-paneled car, the brunette fell silent, no doubt out of habit. "I have to get to work on the Book" Miranda said quietly. "But tennis tomorrow sounds good. Lunch too?"

"Sure."

The doors glided open and they stepped into the hall, which was mercifully empty. Andrea stopped in front of her door and gave Miranda a smile that had grown rather shy. "I had a good time today. Thank you, Miranda."

"You're most welcome."

Swiftly, Andrea crossed the hall and kissed Miranda's cheek before she vanished into her room. Miranda stood, frozen for a moment in the middle of the hallway, and when she finally forced herself to move, her hands trembled as she fumbled with her MagCard. Dear God…one tiny point of contact between Andrea's lips and her skin and she was a mess!

Soon, she was standing under the icy jets of the shower and studying her body. Her last procedure had been three years ago (even with the famous Priestley willpower, her stomach wouldn't stay flat without _some_ assistance) and the scars were hardly visible. Her breasts were still high (five years ago on that one), and perfectly smooth—a living testimony to what good skin care and staying out of the sun could accomplish. In short, she had done everything a woman with money could possibly do to stop the clock. But that didn't make her twenty-five, or keen to take her clothes off in front of someone twenty-five.

_But Andrea will be naked, too…_

Miranda groaned into the cold spray. She knew she would have to work on the Book tonight, and probably all night as well, but she knew right now her mind would not be on it; it had taken up permanent residence in the room across the hall.


	14. Chapter 14

I wrote the review for Theo as soon as I got into the room. I still couldn't believe I had actually _kissed _Miranda Priestley, and I knew I was working against time. Pretty soon, today would be all I would be able to concentrate on. I hoped I hadn't blown everything by kissing her. I couldn't ever remember wanting someone so much, not even Nate. I loved Nate with all my heart, but he never gave me such a feeling of desperate hunger. I had a hell of a hard time even sitting still; the soft leather office chair was suddenly uncomfortable.

I wanted to email Shay in the worst way, but I wouldn't. Miranda would consider it a betrayal and she'd be right. With someone like her, secrecy had to be maintained or the press would descend like vultures; it had been her main concern when she got divorced.

I decided to take a hot bath instead. I had no idea what the rest of the night would bring. Probably nothing, since work on the Book was sacrosanct, but it never hurt to be prepared and my legs needed shaving anyway.

The tubs at the Blackstone were the best! They were these giant, clawfooted things so long that even I could lie all the way down in them and so deep that I could float a little. Since I'm 5'9, it was quite a treat for me. So was the fact that the shower had a detachable massager. In fact, I made kind of a mess on the floor.

I got into bed, wondering if Miranda was enjoying _her_ shower massager. If I hadn't been so worried that I'd scare her away, I would have been beating her door down.

Somehow or other, I managed to get to sleep that night, and the next day, Miranda was kicking my ass on the tennis court. I learned to play in junior high and was pretty good by college, but Miranda played like she was playing at Wimbledon. I fought hard, and managed to not lose by too great a margin, but I had to work for it. Miranda, damn her, looked only slightly flushed and wasn't breathing hard at all.

"Good game" Miranda said, smiling. "Very good in fact. Where did you learn to play?"

"At a summer program with Cincinnati parks and recreation. What about you?"

"Theo taught me."

"Really?!"

"Yes. Don't look so surprised, Andrea. Anyone who can use Google knows that I didn't exactly spring from the kind of environment that includes tennis lessons. Theo, on the other hand, came from Eton."

She was right. Miranda Priestley might be one of the world's richest women, but Miriam Princhek had been the eldest of twelve children in one of the rough districts of London.

"Theo's from Eton?"

"Oh yes. His parents were quite wealthy. They only cut him off when they found out about his proclivities."

"I knew you two had known each other for a long time."

"We met in Paris. He drives me insane, but he's always been there for me."

I thought about how true _that_ was. He might be arrogant and high-handed about it, but he clearly seemed invested in her future happiness.

"There are times, in fact, that I think I ought to have married _him_. I would still get the tax break with only half of the aggravation." Miranda smiled bitterly.

"But would he have been a good role model for the girls?" I teased, thinking about how snippy he was.

"Of course. No one knows Armani like him."

I laughed. So did she.

We ate lunch in the dining room. She had salad. I ordered my usual array of dishes. We were both quiet, and I was nerving myself up to ask when she would be free for dinner next, when she said, "I'm attending City Ballet's performance of _Giselle_ next Saturday with the girls. Would you be free that evening?"

"I should be" I said cautiously.

"You _do_ like ballet, don't you?"

"Yes. I've always meant to go, but somehow…" I said lamely.

"There was never time."

"Yeah".

"If this is going to work" Miranda said rather grimly. "We're both going to have to learn to make time."

"Well, it isn't exactly brain surgery" I said, striving for lightness. "I think two intelligent women should be able to work out a simple schedule."

"You would think. But I've had trouble doing it even with two assistants to help me."

It was a little unnerving to see Miranda pursing her lips as she pondered the alien concept of free time. I had no doubt she would bring all of her focus to the problem, and _that_ was a little scary, too. I wondered if I would get a say at all in how our time was spent.

"I used to take ballet, once upon a time" I ventured.

"So did the girls", Miranda replied absently. "They were both quite good at it, but they lost interest after a while."

"I loved it, but I was a royal klutz. It was okay when I was taking kiddie classes, but once I got to junior high, it got embarrassing."

"I always wanted to have lessons" Miranda sighed. "But of course, it was out of the question with so many of us. When I had the girls, I was determined that they would get to do everything I didn't."

"Do you still talk to your family?" I had always been curious about the Princheck siblings. Google had told me that one of the boys was a fairly well-known investment banker in London, but there was not much information other than that.

"No."

Okay, now what? Miranda was staring at her salad like it held the secrets of the universe, and I had the definite feeling that I had just put my foot in it. "I'm sorry…I was just curious."

"No…that's all right. It's just that I don't have a close relationship with any of them."

I decided not to ask why at that moment. As reserved as Miranda was, it was astounding that she'd even bothered to answer the question. I could _see_ her struggling not to snap out a withering retort. She really _was_ trying. It touched me.

"Hey" I said softly. I leaned across the table. "I know it's none of my business, but I'd like to know _you_. Not just who you are at work. _You_."

"I pretty much _am_ my job The thing about fashion is that it touches almost every part of life. What do people love to wear? What do people like to eat? How do they decorate their houses? Where do they like to go? All of it is part of fashion, because fashion is based on people's opinions. And as you know, it moves incredibly quickly; only the technology industry is faster."

"I know that. But surely you have things you like to do outside of the industry. Tennis, for example. Going to the ballet?"

"The girls love the ballet. I do too, I suppose, but most of the time I sit in my box and look at what people are wearing" she smiled wryly. "I'm really not an interesting person, Andrea. Most single-minded people aren't."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing! Self-depreciation and Miranda Priestley did _not_ go together. "That's ridiculous Miranda! I realize you don't have a lot of time for hobbies, but I refuse to believe you're a boring person."

"My husbands thought so, after a while."

"That was then. This is now" Miranda looked sharply at me but I went on. "You were right when you said we'd both have to make time. With that should come a few basic, common-sense ground rules, such as cell phones must be off during a date, and each person must ask the other one about their day and _listen_ for at least thirty minutes."

"That simple, Andrea?" she asked with an edge in her voice.

"We have to start somewhere" I said quietly.

"You have no idea what I do, do you?"

I held up my hands. "I'm not saying it'll be easy. And God knows, we'll both have to be flexible, but I do believe we can manage if we both want to enough."

She shook her head. "That's what they all said. 'You could find the time if you really wanted to, Miranda.' They didn't get it, and it appears that you don't, either, which is very surprising when you consider the fact that you used to be _my assistant_."

"Then tell me what I don't get."

"I don't delegate. Or at least, I try not to. I've worked over twenty years to make _Runway _the best. The very top. After twenty years, the only publication who fights us for that spot is _Vogue._ I do that by approving every single item of clothing, every single accessory, and every single article that goes in it. You should at least have _some _notion of how long that takes."

"I do know. And don't talk to me like I'm an idiot."

"I have to be on top of things every single minute of every single day" she said in a less sarcastic tone. "That includes being on top of my staff to make sure _they're_ on top of things. Some of them have been in the business for decades and still take 'no' for an answer. If I'm not there, they get slack. And then there are my friends and associates in the industry. Part of the reason for my success is that I am _always_ there, always _available_."

I found this somewhat hard to believe. When I worked for Miranda, the majority of my time in the office was spent taking detailed messages and screening her calls. I decided that it would not be wise to point this out. Keeping my tone as even and neutral as possible, I said, "I do know this. And maybe you will need your cell phone on all the time. But I also know that if a relationship isn't fed, it dies. It doesn't matter if it's a marriage, a dating relationship, or a friendship. People _need _to feel like they're a priority in their loved ones' lives and I would like to think…" I stopped, feeling my ears turn red. I had almost said: _I would like to think that I would be a priority in yours._

"I just need to you understand" Miranda said in a gentler tone. "I can promise to do my very best, but there _will_ be times when plans need to be changed, and sometimes it's right on the spur of the moment. Most of the time I will be able to tell you when that happens, but sometimes I won't."

I thought about that. "Fair enough. It's not as if Theo doesn't give me unexpected assignments. There will be times when _I_ have to cancel on _you_."

Miranda actually looked relieved, which touched me even more. "So, what are you doing today?" I asked. "

"Getting ready to go back" she paused. "Are you driving a rental?" I nodded. "Turn it in here and ride back with me."

I didn't have to be asked twice, although I was glad I had brought only one suitcase and the laptop when I saw Miranda's mountain of luggage. "Um…forgive me for asking…but was all of this stuff just for one weekend?"

"Of course" Miranda's eyebrows rose behind her sunglasses. "I always make sure I'm prepared for anything when I travel."

I resisted the impulse to widen my eyes and innocently inquire if she had any naughty lingerie hidden in the depths.

I followed her into town and turned in the car at a local franchise. "I have a breakfast meeting" Miranda said briskly, "And of course, there's always the Book, but I recently obtained a copy of a new documentary—it's about Coco Chanel. Would you be interested?"

"Sure!" If it meant spending more time with the woman whose perfume was starting to drive me crazy, I was game. Last night, I had only kissed Miranda on the cheek, but I still remembered how soft her skin was. Sitting in a darkened room where I could at least _fantasize _about taking indecent liberties sounded like a delightful idea indeed.

"Do you know anything about Chanel, Andrea?"

"I know she was one of the most important fashion designers in the world."

"More than that. She was a cultural icon. I think you'll find this very interesting. Her life really demonstrates what happens when one person changes a whole generation's perception."

I fought the urge to say something smart-alecky. I could respect the fact that fashion was Miranda's world, and even enjoy some of that world myself, but I still couldn't see it as being on a par with say, the civil rights movement or the Dalai Lama.

On the other hand, when I was working at _Runway_, some of my favorite articles had been about what goes on behind the scenes, and the history of the business. And, of course, there was the sitting-in-a-dark-room-with-Miranda part. I wondered if she would make popcorn, and a giggle ticked the back of my throat.

"What's so amusing?"

"Nothing", I said, shaking my head. "I was just wondering if we would have popcorn."

Miranda looked startled. "I suppose we could do that, if you like. I don't eat very many carbohydrates, though."

"It's okay" I explained. "I just have a hard time seeing you eating popcorn or flossing your teeth or doing anything I associate with ordinary living."

"I assure you I _do_ floss my teeth."

"But is it designer floss? Or do you use plain old Johnson & Johnson like everyone else?"

"I use the kind for sensitive teeth. In England, the water isn't fluoridated, and we don't have much use for dentists unless we can't chew. When I first came to America, the first thing I did when I started making money was to get mine straightened and bleached. I was jealous of all those pure-white American smiles."

"I had braces. My smile cost two thousand dollars."

"It was worth it. You have a lovely smile."

I blushed. I couldn't help it. Miranda's tone was cool, but her gaze sure wasn't. A gaze has to be pretty intense if you can feel it through heavily smoked Chanel sunglasses.

Miranda held out her hand. I took it.

We rode all the way back to New York like that.


	15. Chapter 15

Miranda actually found herself in a flurry once she arrived back at her townhouse. She had Roy drive Andrea home—the girl had wanted to go home, unpack, and then shower and change before arriving at Miranda's.

The _house_ looked perfect, but it was just that Miranda had no idea what might happen next. It had been so long since she'd been on a real date. And of course, she'd never dated a woman before. She didn't know how aggressive she should be, or what Andrea liked in a date. Men, she reflected, were fairly simple creatures. They mostly wanted food and sex on a regular basis, and if you had some values and interests in common, you were home free—at least for the first few months or so.

And then too, there was the question of safety. Miranda hadn't been with anyone but Stephen in the past three years. Andrea, however, had been with Christian and he was notorious. She would have to ask how cautious they'd been, as off-putting as that sounded. And _should_ she just assume it would happen tonight? Despite Andrea's fling with Christian, Miranda doubted she was the type who made a habit of going to bed on the first date. And what _did _two women use for safe sex, anyway?

She wasn't about to call Theo. Instead, she went into her office and turned on the computer.

An hour later, she switched it off, shaking her head and wondering how in the world someone could possibly be romantic and then whip out a roll of plastic wrap.

Turning her mind to the all-important question of what she should wear and more specifically, how far she should go with underwear, Miranda entered the room that served as her closet. Like the Closet at _Runway_ everything in it was meticulously arranged by designer and season. Tonight was casual and she planned to be comfortable, but she also wanted to be sexy and irresistible. This, in her experience, was a contradiction in terms, but it was a puzzle she planned to solve. A soft sweater in black or dark blue, perhaps. Comfortable slacks. Underwear? Miranda briefly toyed with the idea of wearing one of her few thongs, then changed her mind. She hated the damn things.

She tried to control the butterflies in her stomach as she unpacked, bathed, and dressed. She made her face up carefully and applied Bulgari to a few strategic areas. When the doorbell rang at seven, she was able to be tolerably calm as she answered it.

Andrea stood on the other side, wearing a smile, a stunning leather jacket, and a warm smile. She carried a bottle of wine. "It's a Merlot. I hope you like Merlot?"

"I do" Miranda hoped it was a vintage she could tolerate. "Come in. You look nice. I believe I recognize that lovely jacket."

Andrea blushed. "Yeah, you probably do. Do you want me to give it back?"

Miranda waved her hand dismissively as she led Andrea into the house. "The living area is upstairs. Follow me and I'll find some glasses."

She led Andrea up the stairs, thanking God a bar was one thing in the living area Stephen had insisted on. She dug out some glasses from a low cupboard and a corkscrew from a drawer. She held out her hand for the bottle but Andrea shook her head. "I'll do it."

As Miranda watched, the young woman expertly popped the cork. No screw cap; that was good. Miranda had been afraid of the words, "It doesn't have a cork", although she supposed that was silly. Andrea worked for Theo now and surely she had learned _something _about wine from that chef-boyfriend of hers.

"This is a wonderful house", Andrea said admiringly as she looked around the living room.

Miranda smiled. "It is nice, isn't it? I've been thinking of having it redone—it's something I usually do when I get divorced, but on the other hand, the only thing Stephen changed was putting the bar in and his office."

Andrea shook her head. "Keep it. Just rip the bar out."

They sat on the white linen sofa. Andrea, mindful of the upholstery, seated herself gingerly on the edge and set her glass carefully on a coaster. Miranda departed for the kitchen and soon returned carrying a large bowl full of popcorn. Andrea's eyes widened, then she laughed, "Popcorn!"

"Glorious Foods white cheddar" Miranda grinned as she kicked off her shoes. "The best kind. Go ahead and get comfortable, Andrea. The sofa doesn't bite."

Andrea eased back into the cushions. "I wanted to set the wine down first. The last thing you need on this couch is Merlot stains."

Miranda pulled both feet up on the couch and turned off the lamp on the end table and began the DVD. She set the bowl of popcorn directly on the sofa and was delighted when the younger woman scooted closer.

The documentary was actually very interesting, but Miranda found focusing difficult. She kept glancing at Andrea out of the corner of her eye, wondering if the young woman was really as fascinated by the life of Coco Chanel as she seemed to be, or if she, like Miranda herself, was suddenly having an attack of nerves. Sometimes their hands would meet in the popcorn bowl. It gave Miranda an idea.


	16. Chapter 16

_**Andrea**_

If you had asked me even six months ago if I could ever see myself lounging around on Miranda Priestley's sofa, watching a DVD and eating popcorn, I would have questioned your sanity. If you had asked me even a few _hours _ago if I ever thought I'd be doing what I was doing now I would have questioned my own.

The documentary on Chanel _was_ interesting (I never knew she pissed off her native country by being with a German guy during World War II.), but as it turned out, I missed big parts of it.

Miranda did actually have popcorn—this completely divine white cheddar stuff from Glorious Foods—and while we were eating it, it was inevitable that our hands should fight for some of the fluffy white kernels of cheesy goodness. When the bowl was empty, Miranda picked up my hand and said idly, "You have it all over your fingers, Andrea."

The next thing I knew, her tongue was lapping the powder from my skin.

I'm sure my eyes damn near bugged out of my head.

She raised an eyebrow. "Something wrong?"

"Uh…_no_!" I squeaked. "But are you sure you—"

She kissed my palm, then the inside of my wrist. Her mouth was so soft and silky…nothing at all like Nate's or any guy's for that matter. She took my face in her hands and tasted my lips, really tasted them, running her tongue gently over the top and bottom and sliding in deep when I opened my mouth. It was some of the best kissing I ever had, and I didn't know if it was because she was a woman, because she was older, or just because she was Miranda.

I slid my arms around her and she pulled me close and kissed me harder, biting my mouth teasingly. I heard myself whimper. She chuckled and it sounded wicked and I was so turned on I toyed with the idea of ripping her shirt open right then and there. The only thing that stopped me was the knowledge that her shirt probably cost as much as a month's rent.

"Ahhh, Ahn-dre-ah" she whispered. "I've wanted this _so_ much. So much."

I knew then that I would have a fetish for British accents for the rest of my life.

_**Miranda**_

She had forgotten to turn her cell phone off. Andrea groaned and rested her head against Miranda's breast as Miranda groped for the irritating thing, planning to murder the caller at once, even if it turned out to be Irv.

"_What?!"_ she growled.

"So lovely to talk to _you_, too" retorted Theo. "You never called back, so I wanted to see if you were all right. Are you?"

Was she all right. Let's see: Andrea's silky hair was under her chin while her sharp little teeth were nibbling her throat and collarbones. Was she _all right?!_ What a stupid question!

"Fine" she managed. "I'll call you later."

"She's there, isn't she?"

"_Goodbye_, Theo."

Andy buried her face in Miranda's chest and shook with giggles. It tickled. And caused other sensations.

Theo laughed too, the sound purely evil. "Tell her I won't expect her until ten."

He hung up and Andrea lifted her head, still laughing. "Jesus…he knows, doesn't he? He knows I'm here."

"Yes" Miranda sighed, lacing her fingers into her ex-assistant's chestnut locks. "He says you can be there at ten. I can't promise he won't grill you."

"I'll deal with it. I can handle anything, remember?"

"Oh, yes?" Miranda pulled Andrea's shirt out of her trousers, her fingers seeking the velvet-soft skin at the base of the girl's spine. Andrea gasped as Miranda teased it lightly with her fingernails. "Are you sure about that?"

Andrea bit her neck, making Miranda hiss at the sensation. "Try me."

"Be careful about making that invitation, Andrea" Miranda warned as she shifted their positions so the younger woman lay beneath her on the white sofa. A vision of Andrea's dark hair scattered across the white pillows of her bed flashed through Miranda's mind like a brush fire. She caught Andrea's wrists and pressed them into the sofa, over the girl's head. Andrea moaned, her eyes fluttering closed. "Andrea, look at me" Miranda whispered against her ex-assistant's parted lips. _"Look at me."_

The big brown eyes, dilated to almost black opened and burned into her own.

Miranda turned her attention to the buttons on the front of Andrea's shirt.

_**Do you always trust your first initial feeling  
Special knowledge holds truth bears believing  
I turned around  
And the water was closing all around  
Like a glove  
Like the love that had finally, finally found me  
And I knew  
In the crystalline knowledge of you  
Drove me through the mountains  
Through the crystal-like a clear water fountain  
Drove me like a magnet  
To the sea**_

How the faces of love have changed turning  
the pages  
And I have changed oh, but you...you remain  
ageless  
I turned around  
And the water was closing all around  
Like a glove  
Like the love that had finally, finally found me  
And I knew  
In the crystalline knowledge of you  
Drove me through the mountains  
Through the crystal-like a clear water fountain  
Drove me like a magnet  
To the sea


	17. Chapter 17

_**Andrea**_

I kept perfectly still. Miranda's nails lightly scored my skin, ticking, as she unbuttoned my shirt. Her eyes were dark in the dim light. I could hear us breathing and I was afraid to move, afraid that any word or gesture would make her stop. I wished I had better underwear; I had offset my trips to Second Thoughts with undies from the clearance table at Macy's. They were soft and functional, but in no way sexy. Had I known I was going to end up on my back on Miranda's couch, I would have skipped underwear altogether.

I could feel her trembling and I wanted to hold her. Despite the fact that _she_ had pinned _me_ down, I knew that part of her had to be terrified. Miranda was as famous for her control as she was for her unpredictability. (In fact, the more I was around her, the more I got the strong feeling that very same unpredictability was the _ultimate_ form of control.) And now she was on the edge of losing it, and I wished I could let her know, somehow, that it was okay—that she was safe. That she would always be safe with me. The only way I knew to do that was to keep still and let her lead.

She opened my shirt, and the clasp at the front of my bra and gazed at me. I don't think I will ever in my life feel as beautiful as I did at that moment. Miranda looked at me like she wanted to devour me, and for once, the word _devour _wasn't just a lame cliché. I was soaking wet, and a bit worried about the couch's upholstery.

"So lovely", she murmured. "But this a bit cramped, don't you think?"

"More space would be nice" I agreed.

She got up off the couch and held out her hand. It blew my mind that she'd been shy to simply hold hands with me barely twenty-four hours ago. I thought she must have decided to just go for it, like making a running dive off the high board at a swimming pool—going fast so she wouldn't freeze up.

I stood with some difficulty. My legs weren't in the best of working order. Miranda pulled me up and I wrapped my arms around her waist, half to steady myself and half to just have her close to me. She leaned against me and buried her face against my shoulder. I was surprised to realize that I was actually a couple of inches taller than she was; Miranda always seemed to tower over anyone in her general vicinity.

She was trembling. I rocked her gently. "It's okay" I whispered into her hair, hoping I wasn't about to destroy the moment by speaking. "I've got you. I won't let go."

She didn't answer, but her arms tightened around me. "Promise me you won't leave, Andrea. _Promise me_."

"I promise I won't if _you _won't." I countered. She lifted her head and I kissed her mouth and it was everything I ever imagined: warm and soft and full.

"I absolutely refuse to go through anything like that ever again" Miranda muttered when we came up for air. I raised my eyebrows. "Was it that bad? I've always been told I was a good kisser."

Miranda poked me in the ribs. I am very ticklish. I squealed rather loudly and jumped away. "I didn't mean _that_" Miranda said with an evil smile. "No, as far as kissing goes, I would say you were remarkably competent."

"Praise indeed!" I rolled my eyes.

"No, I simply refuse to go through another year of obsessing about where you are and what you're doing. You are going to get quite sick of me, Andrea." She pulled me in for another kiss and let me tell you, she was wrong. I was _never_ going to get sick of some aspects of our relationship!

I had a great idea then. I can bench press ninety pounds fairly easily and I figured Miranda couldn't weigh _much_ more than that. I swung her up in my arms and this time she was the one who squealed. "Oh my God! What do you think you're doing?!"

"_Not_ wasting time" I informed her as I headed for the stairs. She was heavy and the stairs were bound to be challenging, but I just couldn't resist the idea of at least being _physically_ more powerful than my Dragon Lady.


	18. Chapter 18

**AN: All right! Here it is at long last. Sorry the lemons only tantalize, but after much consideration, I've decided I'm shy. ;-) So fill in the blanks yourselves! ****Imagination**** is much better, anyway!**

_**Miranda—POV**_

She could only conclude that Andrea was trying to kill her. And that if the girl succeeded then she, Miranda, would die an extremely happy woman. She had insisted upon walking up the stairs herself, not wanting to be dropped by her ardent young assistant, but once they had entered her bedroom, all of her restraint—and Andrea's—had vanished. Miranda hardly led a celibate life, but she could not ever remember wanting someone so badly; badly enough that she was sure her eight-hundred-dollar slacks were ruined. Not to mention the La Perla underwear.

The thought of her garments vanished as they were removed. Andrea's fingers expertly undid buttons and unfastened hooks, causing Miranda to ask with a raised eyebrow, "Have you ever…done this before?"

Andrea smiled and brushed her lips over Miranda's collarbone. "What? Undress someone? Of course I have. I just never had to be so careful about it before. Nate didn't wear clothes that cost more than our combined salaries."

"You know perfectly well what I meant, Andrea." Miranda was slightly irritated, even in the midst of intense physical pleasure. The last person she wanted to talk about was Andrea's ex.

Andrea laughed and nuzzled the valley between Miranda's breasts. "Yes, I do. And the answer is no. But I know what I like, and it stands to reason you'd like some of the same things."

Andrea's reasoning proved to be very sound. Miranda found herself gasping as the hot, soft mouth explored every inch of her skin, moaning when it found the center of her ecstasy, and screaming when Andrea slipped inside her, stroking her very core. Her body was soaked in sweat and her mind was a complete blank as she held onto the headboard of her bed and moved helplessly to the younger woman's rhythm, faster and harder until she was over the edge and crying as she came.

Andrea kissed the tears from her cheeks, "Shhh. It's all right, Merry. It's all right. I'm here…just hold onto me."

Later, when she had calmed a little, Miranda asked, "Why did you call me Merry?"

"I hear Theo calling you that when he talks to you on the phone. I like it; it suits you."

"'Andy' never suited you."

"No?"

"No. Andrea. Ahn-dre-ah" Miranda exaggerated her accent. "That fits. It's a beautiful name."

Andrea smiled and placed a soft kiss on her mouth. Miranda returned it, languidly. She was drifting toward sleep, very much against her will. She wanted Andrea beneath her; she wanted her to feel all the things that she had felt, to return each kiss, each touch, and to add a few variations of her own. _After all_, she thought feeling wickedly mischievous, _One doesn't have three husbands without picking up a few tricks here and there._

But her limbs were like lead and her eyes were slowly closing. "I'm sorry", she sighed, "but I'm afraid this is what happens when you love an older woman."

"Don't apologize" Andrea snuggled against her. "I'm kind of tired myself. I'll tell you what…surprise me."

"What?"

"Surprise me. Don't warn me ahead of time. Just do it…like it says in the Nike ads!"

Miranda snorted and wrapped her arms around the young woman. "What a time to bring up _shoes_, Andrea!"

"Or wear your Blahniks and nothing else…"

Miranda laughed and the sound was deep and joyful. She pressed a kiss into Andrea's silky, dark hair and sleep broke over her like a wave.


	19. Chapter 19

_**Andrea—POV**__._

_I can't walk._

_I can't even move. My limbs feel like spaghetti._

_I will never look at Manolo Blahnik shoes the same way again._

_Oh Dear God, thank You for making me female, and thank You for making Miranda a perfectionist._

The first time I ever had sex, the boy I was with got so nervous it took two or three tries before he managed to last longer than five minutes. It hurt. It was messy and sticky, and we were both royally embarrassed.

With Nate, it was sweet, tender, and eventually comfortable.

With Christian, it was hot and fast, and it tasted like alcohol. It also felt awful the next day.

With Miranda it was…God…is _mind-bending_ too much of a cliché?

I thought it might be awkward, especially for her, but it wasn't. I told her to surprise me and she did. I ought to have known that when you're used to being in charge, that quality tends to bleed over into other areas of life.

_I have to get off this table. Somehow._

"Andrea."

"Nghmf."

"Andrea, you're going to have to move. I need to put the vases back. Deliciously tempting as you are, I do need to be at the office today."

"Can't" I mumbled, my nose still pressed against the marble.

Stiletto heels clicked across the floor. Long nails trailed down my sides. I moaned. Then she tickled my ribs.

"AAAAAARGH!"

I jumped off the table, only sit right down as my legs gave way. Miranda helped me up with that eyebrow arched. That one little gesture was enough to send me over the edge.

"Andrea…"

"Tell them you're going to be late" I ordered as I pinned her against the counter.

"I'd love…mmm…love to" she gasped. "But the spring issue calls."

I cursed _Runway._ The only springs calling _me_ were the springs in Miranda's mattress.

I bit her neck, causing her to drop her handbag and send a shower of change over the kitchen floor. I wasn't about to let her get away. Not after she'd literally had me for breakfast.

"It's rude to eat and run" I whispered into her ear.

"Oh God, you're going to kill me!"

One extra-nice thing about the way Miranda dresses is that she hates pantyhose. There's nothing like traditional stockings for easy access. She ended up calling in late. I ended up on my knees.

I did make it to work by ten. Theo took one look at me and said, "Ms. Sachs, go home."

"Are you firing me?!"

Theo smiled. The first real smile I'd ever seen on him. "I am noticing that your cheeks are flushed and your eyes are glassy. I am noticing you walking like you've had one too many vodka martinis. In short, I am noticing that you have a cold, and must be allowed to go to bed for the rest of the day. I'll see you tomorrow. _Try_ to work in some recovery time."

That's it. The world has officially gone mad. I just got fucked senseless by Miranda Priestly, I just got the day off and a thinly-veiled suggestion that I go _back_ to being fucked senseless by Miranda Priestley, and Theo Marsden, the bitch of all bitches, just winked at me.

I think I'll take his advice. Bed sounds very good.


End file.
